


By No Constraint

by Quinzelade



Series: By No Constraint [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Strong Language, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 73
Words: 398,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5396594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinzelade/pseuds/Quinzelade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A holotape, an echo, a missing son; the Commonwealth awaits. Travelling a lonely path laced with blood and grief, Quinn finds herself thrust into a world of chaos, with only the kindness of a few to guide her. But when events unfold that brings a friend's world crashing down, can Quinn find the strength to pull them both through the trials of steel to the other side?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holo Memories

" _Now say goodbye, Shaun. Bye bye. Say bye bye! Bye, honey. We love you."_

The holotape clicked as it ended, leaving the hum of engines and creaks of steel the only company in Quinn's lonely spot at the bottom of the Prydwen. Her Pip-Boy flickered to life, its green glow filtering up through the stairs above; Quinn opened the top and hovered her hand over the tape inside, chewing her lip. There was a pause, and she shut it again, closing her eyes as the words she had memorised began to play.

" _Oops, haha. Keep those little fingers away... Ah, there we go. Just say it, right there. Right there, go ahead. Ah, yay! Hi honey..."_

"Sister?"

"Shit!" Quinn jumped to her feet without thinking. Stars exploded in front of her eyes and pain seared through the top of her head as she hit the metal steps. "Fuck!" she hissed, staggering forward.

"Whoa," the voice said, and cool metal hands gripped at her arms, steadying her.

" _...kind, and loving, and funny..."_

Quinn groaned, the ache in her head all-consuming as she pressed her palms on the source of her pain. She could feel a lump starting already. After a few moments, when her surroundings had stopped moving, Quinn opened her eyes and found Paladin Danse staring down at her, his bushy eyebrows knotted together in a slight frown. There was a pause; he looked at his hands and let go of her, clearing his throat. "Are you alright, sister? I thought I heard..."

" _But everything we do, no matter how hard, we do it for our family."_

Quinn jabbed at the Pip-Boy buttons, shaking it and twisting the dials at random, as Nate's message continued. A hot, prickling sensation was creeping up her cheeks as she wrestled with the glorified tape player; Nate's voice was for her, and her alone. Danse looked away as she cursed under her breath, taking a sudden keen interest with a patch of rust on the interior of the airship.

" _Now say goodbye, Shaun. Bye bye. Say bye bye! Bye, honey. We love you."_

The click was music to her ears, and she dropped her arm in defeat, the glow of the Pip-Boy illuminating Danse's features. He looked back at her, squinting, and cleared his throat again. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't realise you were...I was just checking that you were settling in fine."

"Yes, fine, thank you," Quinn breathed. She could probably melt Danse with the heat rolling off her face right now. Quinn shook her head. The man was dressed in enough metal to pass as a human tank, and yet he'd still startled her when he'd approached. How out of it had she been? "Is there anything particular you wanted me for?"

If her tone irked Paladin Danse, he didn't show it. If anything, he seemed to relax at the return to familiar territory. "Yes. Maintaining your power armour is an important aspect of the Brotherhood. To survive on the battlefield, you need to know your way around the tool station."

Quinn nodded. Days on the base surfaced to mind, a lifetime away in an untainted world. Sunlight streaming through an open window, a glass of pink lemonade next to Nate as he bent over a rifle, its parts spread out all over the clean tablecloth. Despite countless threats of divorce and arguments over the dining table not being a personal work station, the guns were still maintained in the kitchen until the day Nate left the army. In the end, Quinn had given up, but this in itself came with perks. No one else she knew could say their husband treated them to a brand new tablecloth every month. And it had always been interesting to watch him work. He talked while he tinkered and cleaned, and eventually it had become somewhat of an activity for both of them, though Quinn still insisted on the payment of tablecloths. What had he always said?  _"Look after your gear, and it'll look after you."_

"Exactly." Quinn jumped. Had she spoken aloud? Danse was smiling at her. "Not many new recruits understand that so quickly...and sometimes, not quickly enough." He motioned her to follow. "You said you were from the vault, so might not have had an opportunity to learn about power armour maintenance. Mine is in need of repairs, so if you want me to show you the ropes, come with me." He stomped away, each footstep sending loud clangs through the ship. How anyone slept here, Quinn didn't know. She guessed they just adjusted after a while. With a shrug to herself, she trailed after the paladin, ducking carefully around the stairwell before travelling up it.

Danse crouched behind his stationed power armour, humming tunelessly to the radio as he worked. Quinn watched in silence, sat cross legged on a stack of crates next to him, noting his careful hand despite his size, and how he placed each tool down neatly in a line when he was finished with it. Nate's workshop – Quinn had made him move to his own man shed when they bought the house in Sanctuary Hills, tablecloths be damned – had been an explosion of tools and components scattered across various boxes, shelves, and sometimes even the floor. Most of the women on the street had complained about their husbands always asking for the location of their socks. With Nate, the most common question of the marriage had been,  _"Hun, where's my screwdriver?"_

"What is it, soldier?"

Quinn blinked and looked down at Danse. "Pardon?"

"You were smiling."

"Oh, just..." Quinn coughed. "I was thinking of my husband. He used to show me how to fix up guns, back when...before everything happened. But he was a lot messier than you."

"Tidy tools lead to a tidy victory."

It took some effort suppress the giggle that threatened to come out. Thankfully, Danse had turned back to his armour, giving Quinn the chance to bite on her knuckle until the urge went away. "They teach you that slogan in training, huh?"

"No, it's my own creation," Danse said, his brow creasing. "But...I will admit it sounded better in my head."

She couldn't hold it back anymore. Laughter – real laughter, perhaps the first time she had truly laughed since the day of the vault – erupted from her, and she clutched at the edges of the crates to stop her from falling off. Danse glanced up at her, clearly wounded by this, but before she could utter an apology, she caught sight of the scribes and initiates staring at her, wide-eyed, which set her off again. She laughed until her sides hurt and tears were streaming down her face, and even then it took several more hiccuped giggles before she had calmed down completely. Danse stared at his armour as if he hadn't noticed her outburst, but she could see a tinge of red underneath the dark stubble.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "I wasn't laughing at you. It's just...that's something Nate would have come out with, and he would have been just as earnest as you. He was a real soldier when he first joined up, though he relaxed a lot after we had Shau..." She trailed off. Nate. Shaun. Gone. God, how she wanted to play the holotape. It took her a moment to realise Danse was staring up at her, but when she caught his eye, he quickly turned away.

"I'm almost done with my adjustments. Just a tweak of this plating and..." There was a scraping noise, a click, and Danse stood up. "There." He stretched his arms and gave her a warm smile. All was forgiven. Quinn returned it and slipped off the crates, padding over to her own station with the paladin. He was surprisingly agile outside of his armour, but moved with a strange lope, as if trying to compensate for a weight that wasn't there.

Danse laid the tools out on the floor, one by one, in a perfect line, and gestured her over. "First things first," he said, picking up a screwdriver

_Hun, where's my screwdriver?_

and pointing to the helmet, "you need to protect your head. The on-board display is essential for mapping out the battle and identifying enemies, so knowing what you're doing when you're repairing or upgrading could save your life...or kill you, if your work is shoddy. Luckily for you, Proctor Ingram insists on field tests for every modified piece of equipment. However, if you're on the field, no one else can pick up your slack. Do you understand, soldier?"

Quinn nodded.

"Good." Danse set to work on the helmet and after a few minutes, removed the face plate. "Now, let me explain all the main parts to you. It looks complicated, but once you get used to it, it's fine..."

Hours passed. The paladin went over everything, from the basics to the fine details, and Quinn drank it all in. It was much more advanced than anything she had done with Nate, and yet somehow it seemed to  _click_. Danse would explain an aspect of the armour, and she would barrage him with questions, before taking a look at the part in question and discussing how she would tweak it. Sometimes he would agree with her, other times he would correct or challenge her, but also tell her why. The conversation would flicker between playful and serious, with most of the seriousness from him, and yet she noticed him smiling more and more as the evening went on.

Eventually, Danse set down the last of the tools and stifled a yawn. "I think that's all I can teach you, soldier," he said, rubbing his eyes. "But if there's anything more you want to learn, Proctor Ingram will be happy help...if she's not busy." They both knew that Proctor Ingram barely had time to eat or sleep, never mind teaching new recruits armour modification, but Quinn appreciated the sentiment all the same. "That went on longer than I thought it would, though, so..." Danse began to walk away, but stopped when Quinn stayed on the spot. "You're not tired?"

"I..." Quinn glanced at her Pip-Boy before she could stop herself. The hot flush was returning to her cheeks and she stared down at her feet, wishing he would just go away.

He did not go away. Instead, he spoke so softly she almost didn't hear him. "Quinn."

Quinn reluctantly met his gaze. He wasn't smiling now, but there was something else in his eyes that seemed to speak volumes of loss...or maybe simply understanding. He beckoned her, and for the umpteenth time that night, she followed. Danse led her through the maze of steel walkways and stairs, and took her to a door near the top that she had missed before, holding it open so she could walk through first.

The wind hit her with such force her breath caught in her throat as it pushed her back, but Danse's hands were firm at her shoulders, guiding her forwards until she found her balance. The Commonwealth was laid out before her, a decaying hive of metal and brick, the grey sky a grim backdrop to this new world. And yet it still left her speechless. There was a clang behind her, and she turned to see Danse leaning against the shut door.

"It's loud," he shouted above the gale, "but they can't hear you from in there, either. No one comes out here unless we're under attack." He motioned to the sniper rifle and ammunition box at their feet. "So you won't be disturbed. Goodnight, sister." Danse wrenched the door open and left, banging it shut as he went.

Quinn stared after him. He hadn't even given her a chance to say thank you, but then again, perhaps that was the point. She gazed out onto the Commonwealth one last time, and then sat down with her back to the door, activating the holotape at her wrist. It was much harder to hear outside, but that didn't matter. She knew it all, word for word.

" _Hi honey..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am new to this site and still working out all the formatting and everything. Hopefully this has worked OK.


	2. Pistol Packin' Mama

"We're going in hot!"

Boots hit the ground, dust and dirt spraying up as bullets danced across the floor in a zig-zagging pattern. The chess pieces sprinted forward, rifles at the ready, the metallic thunder drowning out the crackle of their headsets. The first fell with a snap of his head, his body jerking backwards in a sharp, painful motion. The second, a landmine that made her fly, the shredded remains of her legs streaming behind her. Down they went, one by one, collected by the lurking pawns of the enemy.

Cover. Blissful, beautiful cover. Nate gasped as he reached it, ducking just in time as bullets shot straight through the section above his head, raining fragmented brick down onto him. He grasped for a grenade at his belt, pulled the pin with his teeth,

_Quinn will be pissed. My dental is crap enough already._

and lobbed it over the wall. The screams were drowned out by the ear-shattering explosion that flung debris and remains all over the battlefield. There was still gunfire; less of it, but no less of a threat. It only took one bullet to do the job.  _Just let me see Quinn again. Let me be here to see my son. Please._

"Forward!"

Crossing himself and kissing his wedding ring, Nate threw himself over the pockmarked wall and sprinted, his heart hammering against his chest as he willed his legs to carry him on, to miss the mines, to make him too fast to hit. A boom not far to his left told him one of his friends hadn't been so lucky; their cries faded as he ran on, thankful that at least they could still cry. Twice, he felt a hard something graze his cheeks, followed by a hot, trickling sensation. With each blessing of cover, no matter how frail, Nate praised God and begged him to help for just one more run. And one more. And one more. And...

"Nate, duck!" Hands grabbed him and dragged him into the dirt as something whizzed overhead; he found himself nose to nose with Sergeant Crofts, a young woman with the face of an angel and the aim of a demon. She grinned. "Watch your ass, Nate. You got a pretty gal to go home to." She rolled off him, gave him her usual wink, and sprinted on, her slight, athletic frame immediately lost in the swirling clouds of dust. Nate shook his head and scrambled up to follow. He had barely taken two steps when an explosive force knocked him off his feet. Something heavy and wet landed on him, knocking the wind out of him. Nate coughed and wiped the grit out of his face, to be greeted with the blank stare of Crofts, her pretty features now torn up by shrapnel and shiny burns.

"Fuck!" Nate screamed, shoving her body away and staggering to his feet. Her glassy, blue eye was still looking at him even though she was face down, accusing. Where was his gun? Where-?

_Crack._

Nate hit the dirt again, coughing. A strong salty taste in his mouth made him gag, and he spat out red as he tried to stand. Two more rounds in quick succession put him back on the ground. He stared ahead at Crofts' crumpled body, the dust around her darkening, her fiery hair covering her face. All sound had been muted away, and he shivered, barely noticing the disgusting mixture of grit and blood in his saliva. Crofts...one of the strongest women...one of the strongest people he knew. Had known. Nate swallowed, ignoring the prickling pain in his throat, and shut his eyes. He was dying. God, he was dying, and he'd never see his son.  _Quinn, honey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I...love..."_

* * *

" _We love you."_

The tape clicked as it reached the end, but despite the bright light from the Pip-Boy, its owner did not stir. She remained still on the foredeck until a dull sun crawled up onto the horizon, washing the ruins of Boston with a pale morning glow. A bird landed on the railings next to her and squawked loudly, cocking its head as her eyes flickered open. It considered her for a moment, and then cawed again for good measure.

"Fuck off," Quinn muttered, shivering as she straightened up and looked the bird in the eye...eyes? Were those four eyes? Six? The bird stared back, twitching its head from side to side. It opened its beak and Quinn held up a stern finger. "Don't you dare, asshole. Don't you dare. It's too early for this shi-"

"Caaaaaw."

"Fine!" Quinn pulled herself up using the railings, ignoring the bird bouncing away and then back again as she stretched and groaned, her limbs clicking with every movement. "You win. I'll leave you to your throne." The bird squawked victoriously as she slammed the door behind her.

It was only slightly warmer inside the Prydwen, but at least there was no wind. Ignoring the stares and whispers of 'newcomer' and 'vault dweller' (perhaps she should have changed the Vault-Tec suit by now), Quinn made her way to where the food was, the only part of the ship she'd bothered to memorise. Helping herself to noodles, Quinn dropped herself at an empty table in the corner, cradling the warm bowl in her hands. After a few moments, a dark young man with a thin face sat at the end of the table, the furthest point away from Quinn. She raised an eyebrow and studied him, grinning as she saw him staring intently at his own bowl. "Are you new too?"

The young man jumped, almost knocking his bowl to the floor, but managing to grab it at the last second with a slight hissing noise. Noodles secured, he sucked his now red fingers, blushing slightly as he gave an abrupt nod.

"I'm Quinn." She stuck out her hand. The young man took his fingers out of his mouth and went to shake, and then withdrew quickly, his flush deepening.

"Sorry..." he mumbled, bowing his head. Quinn laughed and offered her other hand; he took it with a small smile. Despite his demeanour, his grip was firm. A good, strong handshake. "I'm...Carson. Liam Carson."

"Nice to meet you, Liam. Or do you prefer Carson?"

"Carson," Carson replied, stirring his noodles absent-mindedly. "Surnames seem to be the popular choice around here."

"Carson it is then." There was a brief silence as they ate. "How long you been here?"

"Six months," Carson said through a mouthful, practically inhaling his noodles. It seemed he was quick to relax. "People like you who get sponsored, they don't have to do the training. They've already proven they can cut it. Me however? I was picked up from a farm in the Capital Wasteland on a whim and given a gun. Came along for the ride to the Commonwealth; seemed like a good idea at the time."

Quinn blinked. Ever since she had arrived, she had heard nothing but passion to the point of worship about Elder Maxson and the Brotherhood. Carson's lack of fervour struck her as odd, but also refreshing. It was a feeling she could share. "Why did you join at all?"

Carson shrugged. "What else is there in this shithole of a world? You just have to pick a side and hope they're enough to carry you to the end."

A huge grin spread across Quinn's face, and she raised a fork to him. "If I had a beer, I'd drink to that. As it stands, you're stuck with noodles." Carson laughed and raised his own fork, clinking it with hers before eating the rest of his food. Quinn set down her cutlery and stretched, and then noticed that Danse was watching her from across the room; he turned away and started talking to Proctor Ingram, who was sat opposite him. Had he really been watching her, or was she just imagining it? It didn't matter. Now she'd settled in and set up her armour, it was time to see what job Maxson had for her. Any act against the Institute was one step closer to her son.

Quinn stood up, chair scraping loudly on the floor, dealt with her dirty dishes, and wandered off to suit up. Footsteps sounded behind her, and moments later, Carson joined her.

"My first live mission today," he said, tapping his fingers on his arm as his eyes darted around the Prydwen. "I don't know what it is yet, but I have to report to Maxson soon."

"Me too. Help me suit up and we'll go together."

Getting into the power armour was an odd experience. She had done it once before when she had first woken up, stumbling upon an old museum held at siege, with the remains of the Minute Men trapped inside. A deathclaw had pulled itself up from the earth in the midst of the fighting, and it would have torn her limb for limb had it not been for the armour. Quinn wrestled with the catch, feeling a small sliver of pleasure at the strange clunk and hiss as the armour opened to admit her.

Stepping in was claustrophobic at first – it was those crucial seconds caught between the limbo of air and the suit, where you knew you were being contained, trapped. But once the suit closed and the HUD switched on, you and the suit were one, metal and flesh seamlessly combined. Each movement felt powerful, but also heavy. You directed the armour, but you did not control it. One fault, just one failure of power, and it would lock you in place, leaving you at its mercy.

Quinn took a deep breath as the metal closed around her and the orange display flickered to life. The weight of her new steel body filled her with exhilaration. She was ready. It was time to see Elder Maxson. It was time to find Shaun.

* * *

 

The minigun rattled beneath her hands as the bullets hailed down on the landscape, the heat barely passing through the power armour's gauntlets. The thunder of metal and howls of the behemoth were not enough to silence the whirling thoughts trapped in Quinn's head. Was it rage at Maxson, for this petty distraction? The Institute, for everything they had done? Danse, for leading her here? Or was it at herself, for choosing the Brotherhood's help over Nick's? Maxson's words burned through her.

_It'll have to wait. The Brotherhood can not allow those abominations to have a nuclear arsenal at their fingertips._

It would have to wait? Over her dead fucking body it would wait. She couldn't leave now, not when she was flanked by Danse and Carson, so close to the airship. But once the super mutants below were dealt with and the fatman shells at Fort Strong were secured, Quinn would find a way to discreetly take her leave. Perhaps Nick had managed to make his way back to Diamond City. If not, maybe Piper would help for the sake of a good story...

There was a loud bang as a boulder hit the vertibird, knocking it off course. It spun wildly in the air, and for a moment Quinn pictured Shaun in her arms as she waited for an impact that never came. The aircraft righted itself, and Quinn found the behemoth right in her sights, bleeding heavily and clearly pissed off. With a roar, Quinn unleashed the punishment of the minigun and yelled triumphantly as it tore through the flesh of the monster, the concentrated fire caving in its large head.

"Good job, soldier!" she heard Danse yell from behind her. "The pilot's just told me the vertibird has taken heavy damage, so she's dropping us here to finish the job on foot. Brace yourselves! We're going in hot!"

The vertibird dipped down and the screams of the super mutants grew louder. Quinn had encountered them briefly on the way to Diamond City, but had managed to keep a safe distance and out of their notice. Up close, they filled her with a mixture of horror and fear that rooted her to the spot as Danse threw himself out of the 'bird and charged. A knock to the back of her helmet brought her to her senses; Carson gave her a thumbs up and jumped out himself, leaving her alone. It was now and never. Gritting her teeth, Quinn tore herself away from the mounted gun and launched herself into the battlefield.

Lipless, hulking creatures towered over her, bulging muscles barely contained underneath sickly yellow-green skin. They gnashed their brown teeth, eyes wide with a glazed, psychotic look that made Quinn take a step back.

_Shaun._

With a cry, Quinn opened fire, her combat rifle blowing the back of the nearest one's head out and spraying the others with its blood. They didn't seem to notice, instead returning fire and forcing her behind cover. She pulled a grenade from the attachment case on her armour, primed it, and threw it as hard as she could. It bounced off the head of a mutant and exploded, sending up a spray of gore that rained down around her. But as she moved from cover to fire again, something crashed into the side of her helmet, knocking her flat. Without thinking, she rolled – something Quinn would have thought impossible in all the bulk – and caught a glimpse of a piece of pipe slamming down where her head had been seconds earlier. The super mutant gave a strangled roar and lashed out; Quinn's arms went up just in time, and the shock of the blow made a sickening zigzag all the way up to her shoulders. She gave a grunt and kicked out, catching it in the chest and staggering it, giving her enough time to hit it between the eyes. It crumpled backwards without another word, the pipe landing with a dull thud in the sand next to it, but Quinn was already getting to her feet, her combat rifle delivering its next blow without mercy.

All the chaos was not enough to drown out the memory that bubbled away peacefully beneath the surface, holding her together from afar. Nate's hands were around hers, her back against his chest as she squinted down the sights of a small pistol he had picked out for her. The rush as she pulled the trigger and the feel of his warm skin against hers hummed gently in the back of her mind, guarding her against the monsters. He had been delighted when she had wanted to try out the shooting range on base, and even more so when he realised she had a knack for it. So long ago, and yet the lessons had never truly left her.

The peace was threatened by a terrible scream.

Quinn whirled on the spot and was halfway across the area before she had even realised she was sprinting. In the distance was Carson, flat on his back, with what looked like a rusted car bumper sharpened into a makeshift sword protruding from his midriff. The super mutant stood on his chest, laughing as Carson's shrieks were cut off with a wheeze. He was larger than the rest, a hulking monstrosity with a wicked scar across his face, his huge, meaty hands grasping the hilt of the sword and twisting it, grinning widely as the human writhed beneath him.

Quinn raised her weapon, a string of insults ready on her lips, but Danse got there first. He seemed to fly through the air, taking a running leap at the mutant, his fist colliding with such force that the crack of bone could be heard from where Quinn was. The mutant staggered, freeing Carson's lungs to scream again...except nothing but silence followed. Howling, the mutant ran at Danse, its jaw slack and bleeding. Danse dodged and hit it again, knocking it back, and followed with the butt of his gun smashing into its nose. The creature fell back, missing Carson by inches, and crashed to the floor. Without a word, Danse raised his foot, and slammed it down on its head. There was an unpleasant crunch and a squelch, and the body twitched and jittered beneath Danse's boot. The paladin seemed unconcerned., instead turning to the fallen recruit.

"Carson!" Quinn was at his side now, unsure whether or not to remove the filthy metal blade that had speared him. Carson didn't answer. "I think he's gone," Quinn mumbled as she shook him.

"Don't!" Danse snapped, pulling her away. "We don't want to make this any worse." He felt around the back of the helmet and pulled at a hidden lever. There was a hiss and the helmet came loose, revealing Carson's ashen face. He was breathing. "Talk to him. Now." Danse stood up, pulled a gun from the holster at his leg, and raised it high into the air. It went off with a loud bang, and bright light shot up above them, a trail of thick, red smoke streaming behind it. In the distance, Quinn saw a vertibird fire up and pull away from the Prydwen, but Danse paid it no attention. He dropped the flare gun on the floor, took off his helmet, and moved to the bumper sword, grasping it with both hands. "I said talk to him. Try and restrain him if you can. And get a stimpak ready. We need to work fast."

Quinn removed her helmet and took out a stimpak from the attached armour case, tossing it to Danse, who caught it and put it between his teeth. She then placed her hands on Carson's shoulders, talking softly as she went. Sweet promises of a happy ending left her lips, but she didn't believe them.

His eyes flew open and his back arched as the sword came out with a sickening sound, but his scream was mostly drowned out by the approaching vertibird. Danse knelt down, tearing off Carson's armour as Quinn fought to keep him still, and stabbed the stimpak directly into his abdomen. He trembled and went still, his face slackening as his head lolled to one side.

"Is he...?" Quinn asked, but couldn't finish. Danse shook his head, placed Carson's chest piece over his body, and then shielded the hole in the metal with his own hands. The reason became apparent almost immediately: as the vertibird landed, a storm of dirt was lashed towards them, coating everything in its path with a fine layer of grit. Two knights in power armour jumped out and ran over, and together all four of them managed to get Carson onto the 'bird. It took off quickly and without ceremony, leaving Quinn and Danse stood in silence.

"Will he be alright?" she asked finally. Danse sighed.

"He's stabilised for now, but the rest will be up to Knight Captain Cade. If we'd had a field scribe with us, maybe we could have done more, but as it stands...we're lucky we were so close to the Prydwen."

 _We're lucky?_  Quinn wondered.  _Not 'He's lucky'?_

Danse turned and set off towards the crumbling building at such a pace that Quinn had to run to catch up to him. He was wearing a deep scowl that she had never seen before, and it unsettled her even after it had been hidden by his helmet again. "Come on," he said, reloading his weapon in sharp, jerky motions. "It's time for some payback."


	3. The Efficient Approach

Screams and howls clawed through the room, echoing off the blood slicked walls. Fangs – long as her hand and the colour of putrid flesh – fastened around Quinn, while heavy, scaly paws pressed against her chest. Bullets pinged off her metal shell with little effect, but the teeth dug their way into the weak joints of her armour, where only a reinforced lining protected her soft neck. The hound growled and pushed harder; Quinn's feet scrabbled and slipped on the red-soaked tiles as she bent over the railings. She barely noticed the meat netted above her, its contents dripping slowly onto her visor as she struggled. A pressured ache in her neck grew stronger as the creature's grip dominated her, its foul breath filtering into her helmet. It pushed forward, loosening its jaws to deliver the final clamp on her fragile flesh and bone, and the world spun out of control. She was flying, flickering fluorescent lights spinning like shooting stars, the gore smearing into a streak of scarlet that reminded her of a painting she had seen once as a teenager. All these scattered thoughts shot by in seconds, abruptly stopped by her body slamming hard into the ground.

Dull yells sang to her over the haze of gunfire, broken only by an interlude of snuffling whines. Quinn's vision focused, and she became aware that she was lying on a quivering mound. She rolled over with an unpleasant crunch, to see a mutated hound broken beneath her, its lower half crushed by her fall. Picking up her rifle, Quinn aimed and put it out of its misery. It had nearly ripped her throat out, but it was only an animal after all.

Sound was becoming clearer. With some difficulty, Quinn staggered to her feet and looked up. Paladin Danse was on the walkway above her, wrestling his gun from a super mutant, while another approached him from behind, a huge lead pipe in its hands. There was a click as she reloaded, and she peered down the sights and pulled the trigger.  _Crack_. The super mutant's head snapped sideways as its arms dropped away from Danse's gun. Not wasting a moment, Danse whirled around and blasted away the approaching mutant, sending it skidding off the walkway and landing with a crunch on a large generator in the centre of the room.

"Nice one," Quinn called up, but Danse ignored her, pointing over her and firing. There was a scream as a mutant in a window above turned to ash, its remains raining down on her. Danse reloaded, swung his legs over the railings, and landed with a bang that sent the meat all over the floor flying everywhere.

"Disgusting," he muttered, wiping his boots on a nearby mutant body.

"There's a staircase right there."

"I prefer the efficient approach." He glanced around and raised his eyebrows. "Look at this place! You must hate these mutants as much as I do."

Quinn shrugged. "Why  _do_  you hate super mutants so much?"

"They're responsible for the death of a close friend. A Brotherhood knight named Cutler. So when you ask if I hate them, I say hate's too gentle a word." Danse looked at the super mutant at his feet and gave it a sharp kick to the head. "You saw what they did to Carson. These monstrosities are just another example of man blindly taking a step forward, only to wind up stumbling two steps back. I've been fighting for years, trying to put a stop to this madness, and just when I thought we were getting the upper hand, along come the synths."

A sense of uneasiness was creeping over Quinn. The venom in his voice overwhelming, so strong it was a wonder it hadn't consumed him and everyone around him. And the synths...would he be a threat to...? "What about the synths?"

"I've seen what these super mutants do to people. Can you imagine what the synths would do to us if they ever got the upper hand? It would be Armageddon repeated, and may be the end of everything we hold dear."

Quinn gulped. She would have to make sure to never introduce him to Nick. But the talk of synths destroying everything confused her. Someone like Valentine – one of the few truly good people she had encountered in this new shithole of a world – was not a destroyer. Bringers of annihilation and the eradication of mankind did not make beeping noises with their mouths to scare off raiders.

Danse studied her and her silence and sighed. "Look, I don't mean to bore you with my rhetoric. I just want you to understand how important these missions are. What's important here is that you got the job done."

He fired off a set of orders and then turned his back to her, walking off down the corridor to assess the mini-nukes. She was dismissed. Holding back a noise of annoyance, Quinn stomped off to the elevator, wondering how Carson was doing, and if there was a chance of him being awake. The sooner she got back, the sooner she would know.

From down the corridor, Danse watched her go.

* * *

"Nate!"

His wife's scream rang down the corridor; a stab of pain mingled with joy shot through his chest. Her voice. It was so good to hear  _her_  voice...

"I'm going to have to ask you to calm down. Your husband is right this way, Mrs-"

"Do you see this stomach?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you see this stomach? Do you see this huge, fucking stomach?"

"Yes, I do, and there's no need for language like that."

"Well then, with all your fancy medical training, you might have guessed I'm pregnant, pissed off, and being stopped by some haughty snotrag from seeing my husband because I'm being too  _loud_. Not a good idea! Now get the hell out of my-"

"Quinn," Nate called out, trying not to laugh. The strength of his voice surprised him; who needed medicine when he had his wife?

"Nate!" The cry again, but with the anger gone and replaced by pure anguish. There was a crash and a shriek, and Nate saw a nurse's hat skid past the door, followed by plastic syringes and pill bottles bouncing down the corridor. Seconds later, huffing and bright red in the face, Quinn entered the room. She took one look at him, wailed, and threw herself forward, stopping at the rails of his bed and clutching them so tightly her knuckles turned white. Nate was grateful for her restraint. His insides felt like fire. Quinn's eyes dripped tears, but nothing could diminish the blaze that raged behind them. God, he loved her for that.

"Hey, hun," he whispered, placing his hand on hers.

"Don't you 'hey, hun' me," she sniffed, ignoring the water trickling down her cheeks. "You gave me such a fright." Her lip trembled as he gave her fingers a squeeze.

"Sian Crofts is dead," he said. Nate wasn't sure where this had come from, only that it was raw. He told her how she'd pulled him out of harm's way, and how she'd hit the explosive fate had left out for him. Quinn's free hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh Nate..." This time she did hug him, and he welcomed it, despite the pain. Crofts, the hardass boss who taught him everything he knew. Crofts, the one who gave him advice whenever he struggled with the distance between him and Quinn. Crofts, who had told him with a cheeky smirk that he should name his kid after her. Quinn looked down at him and smiled. She knew. She always knew. "I know we'd settled on Jake or Ellie, but without her..." Quinn pulled him as close as she dared and stroked the top of his head. "Sian for a girl, Shaun for a boy?"

Nate squeezed her arm, ignoring the thunderous looking nurse stood in the doorway. "I think that's perfect." He glanced at the agitated woman. "Now what did you do to Nurse Fiona?"

"Well..."

* * *

"...and that's pretty much what happened," Quinn finished. "My first time fighting super mutants up close. Not something I'm really going to forget, I think. At least Nate's shooting lessons were up to scratch." She stared at the still figure in the bed, their face bruised almost beyond recognition, the tight bandages around their body barely visible beneath the bedsheets pulled up to their collarbone. Quinn cleared her throat. "And Danse...well,  _Paladin_  Danse. He's a pretty angry guy. But he hides all that pissed off beneath metal and stubble and eyebrows. Still, it must come in handy. It saved your life. It'd probably save mine, if I was staying." She fidgeted with the small bag of vertibird signal grenades that Maxson had given her as a reward for their success. He'd given her another mission, too, but she hadn't really been listening. Her mind was already made up. Shaun was her priority, and getting him back lay somewhere else in the Commonwealth. Now it was time for her to make her goodbyes...just a pity Danse wouldn't be here before she went. Would the Brotherhood hunt her down for desertion? It was a risk she would take, and a price she would gladly pay another day. But for now...

Quinn stood up and moved over to Carson, brushing his hair out of his battered face. Footsteps sounded behind her and she withdrew her hand quickly as she turned. "Paladin Danse?"

Danse stood in the doorway, looking as awkward as he always did out of his armour. He raised his hands and stepped back. "Sorry, if I'm interrupting something...I'll come back later."

"No." Quinn's expression softened, making way for a smile. "There's another chair, and I don't think he's going to get many visitors. Please, come in."

Bowing his head slightly, Danse shuffled inside and lowered himself into the chair opposite Quinn's, near the foot of Carson's bed. He stared at his feet, an odd quiet falling over him while Quinn continued to fuss over the man in the bed. Eventually she could find nothing else to do, and returned to her own chair, beginning to regret her invitation to this uncomfortable encounter.

Danse coughed. "You were...you're close?"

"Close?" Quinn shook her head. "No. I only met him today."

Something flickered across Danse's face that she didn't quite catch, but his entire demeanour relaxed instantly. He looked at Carson, frowning. "Why are you here, then?"

"I could ask you the same question."

He seemed surprised by this. "Why wouldn't I be? He was under my command. My responsibility. I had to...I  _wanted_  to see he was alright myself. Not just read a report and forget about it."

Quinn considered this, a warmth growing in her chest. "I feel the same way. I froze up today, faced with those...things. If I hadn't hesitated, I could have killed more of them. I could have prevented it."

"Don't dwell on it, soldier," Danse said, shaking his head. "Just do better next time. For yourself. For Carson."

There was a brief pause. Quinn opened her mouth to say thank you. Instead, everything came pouring out. Her son, her anguish, her need to go. Her growing admiration for what the Brotherhood stood for, but also the mounting despair that their solution was a long-term goal. "I can't stay here," she whispered, arms folded over her chest, eyes squeezed shut. "I have to find Shaun. I have to find my little boy. If the Brotherhood could take me there now, I would stay. But there's another way in, a more dangerous way; something that could kill me if it goes wrong. I thought being here would offer a safer solution, but I was wrong. I need to get back to Sanctuary and finish what I started, with or without Elder Maxson's blessing."

The ringing silence was as loud as scream, but she didn't dare open her eyes. Why had she said that? Now they knew. Now they could stop her.

"Let me come with you."

Her eyes flew open, and Quinn looked up to see Danse's gaze locked on her with such an intensity she felt shivers run down her spine. "What?"

Danse's expression remained stony. "Getting you into the Institute will benefit the Brotherhood greatly. We could learn from them, find out where they are, map out their base for an attack. It's a perfect plan." His mouth spoke of loyalties and duty, steel and strategy; the gleam in his eyes gave a different message.  _I will help you,_  they whispered. Quinn bit her lip as she clenched her fists, trying to stay in control. Danse smiled at her. "Come on. Let's get suited up."


	4. Band of Steel

_God, I remember this road_.

Quinn stopped, memories of a red open topped car, a young man with sunglasses, and whiskey from the bottle were choked by dead grass and rubble. Stupid kids, high on youth and boredom, weaving in and out of cars, occasionally riding off the tarmac. A bump in the road delivering a glass bottle neck to her mouth with accidental force, the burning amber liquid spilling all down her new, white shirt. Quinn ran her tongue across her teeth, the chip in the incisor an old, familiar friend.

The hills opened out to her, a ruined tale of her teens, where the joys of drink and sex had been free to explore, an adventure Quinn had taken happily and often. Her first time hadn't been romantic, or even a pleasant experience. She had always told herself if she ever had a daughter, to warn her of the lure of fun in the bushes; sure, at the time it seems daring and exciting, but it always left you feeling a bit dirty and uncomfortable afterwards. Still...she wouldn't have traded it for the world. Quinn walked on, noting the corpses of trees, their bark and carvings (oh, there had been many carvings), long peeled away. Whether by fire or time, Quinn didn't know, but she mourned their loss all the same. It would be impossible to tell which tree had been  _theirs_ , but at least she knew somewhere out there, one of them had once held the slogan of  _'Quinn + Mark'._

Quinn halted again. What happened to Mark? Their relationship hadn't ended  _well_ , but she had never wished him ill. Would he have died instantly, burnt and stripped away out of existence by nuclear fire, or did he linger before dying? Did he end up in a vault, to be experimented on like her, or had he managed to survive the bombs and experience the hell afterwards? Or maybe...maybe he was still alive. A ghoul. So many questions, with no way to find the answers; and not just with Mark, but everyone she had ever known. Her parents, her friends...everything. Quinn had managed to hold off this realisation of what she had left behind so far, focusing everything on Shaun, but now it threatened to drown her.

"If you have a moment, there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Danse's voice snapped her back to earth with a bump. She blinked and looked around to see him standing just in front on her. From the look on his face, she hadn't been the only one doing some soul-searching. "Of course. What's up?"

"I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot when we first met and I feel like I owe you an apology." An apology? Well this was a surprise. Danse looked almost uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he talked. "Expecting you to embrace the standards of the Brotherhood without having a history with us was unfair. And given that you've adjusted so well to our beliefs, I don't think I needed to push so hard."

Despite herself, Quinn grinned. "So there is a human being under all that power armour after all."

He shot her back a rare smile, his face relaxing at her tone. "Sometimes I need a reminder, but yes...there is." He gave a small sigh. "When I was an initiate, my sponsor was Paladin Krieg. Toughest squad leader I ever served with. He was a model soldier, embodying the values every trainee was striving to achieve. Fiercely loyal, secure in his beliefs, and brave to a fault. From the moment I was assigned to his squad, I was singled out...it felt like he was pushing me harder than the rest of the team. I fought by his side for years, and we had some seriously close calls, but he never explained to me why I was treated that way."

"Did you ever ask him why?"

"I'd considered it, but unfortunately I never had the chance. After I was promoted to Paladin, and I had moved onto my own squad, I received word that Krieg was killed at Adams Airforce Base. The news was like being kicked in the stomach. I mean, I'd lost some of my brothers and sisters before, but his death...well, it really got to me. It's taken me a long time to realise it, but the reason Krieg was so tough on me is the same reason I'm tough on you. It's because I believe in you, and I don't want any of your potential to go to waste."

_I believe in you._  Quinn blinked, the odd, warm feeling in her chest returning. Although she liked Danse, he had never shown her this side before. A vulnerable part of him, that hurt and grieved like others did. The man seemed so unfazed by the wasteland, it was easy to assume he had simply cut himself off from everything around him. She realised that Danse was waiting for an answer, and hurriedly said, "I'm flattered that you have so much faith in me." She meant it, too.

"You've earned that faith by your own hand." There were slight patches of colour hidden under the stubble; Quinn bit her cheeks to stop herself from smirking as he went on. "Well, I've said what I had to say, and I hope it meant something to you. I...trust that you'll keep this in confidence of course. Some of that information was of a personal nature, and well, I'd like to keep it that way."

Quinn nodded. "Not a word from me. Shall we?"

The two of them walked on, the clanking steps of their power armour almost in perfect sync. Quinn hummed to herself as they went, trying to match a tune to the rhythm of her feet, ignoring Danse as he glanced at her, eyebrows raised. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he made no comment as he looked ahead again. A few seconds later, Quinn heard a funny tapping noise of metal on metal, and stopped humming to find the source of the noise, which seemed to be coming from Danse. He looked back at her, laser rifle in hand. "Is there a problem, soldier?"

"I thought..." Quinn stared at his gun, then back up to him. He was twisting his mouth slightly, the fingers from his right hand hovering over the rifle. Quinn tilted her head to side, raising an eyebrow, and Danse cracked, a grin spreading over his face. She returned it. "Never mind," she said, continuing on down the road, humming to the clunk of her boots. Danse's joined the mix a few seconds later, followed shortly by the tapping of his gun. Laughing to herself now, Quinn threw in her own attempt at percussion with her combat rifle. A little thought at the back of her mind wondered what Maxson and the rest of the stuffier members of the Brotherhood would think of their impromptu band; probably a reprimand for using equipment outside of their official designation. That was the reason they were walking to Sanctuary instead of flying – they hadn't exactly specified why they were leaving to head west, just that they were going on a vault hunt for tech. Although telling Maxson what she was planning would have granted his blessing, it would have also taken away the reason for going there. The Elder would want a mission to destroy, not to save; Shaun's life was worth a long walk west. To her great surprise, Danse hadn't pushed against her wishes to keep the destination need to know, but covered for her. He'd looked uncomfortable while he did it, but Maxson had seemed distracted and not noticed. Quinn didn't care; her gratitude for Danse was indescribable.

"Paladin Danse-" she began, just as the radio on her Pip-Boy crackled to life, cutting off the low music and blaring out a message instead.

"Any Minutemen in the area of The Slog, the settlement is under attack by Super Mutants. I repeat, any Minutemen in the area of The Slog, they need assistance to fight off Super Mutants. Assist if you can."

The radio went dead, and the music returned, fuzzy at first and then clearing out to a jaunty tune. Quinn paid it no attention, but brought up her map with a sinking feeling in her stomach. If it was close by...

"What is it?"

Quinn let out a small groan and put her head in her hands. She heard a crunch, and then a hand was on her shoulder, giving her a little shake. With a sigh, she looked up. "We're going to The Slog."

* * *

Half a dozen pair of eyes behind rotting faces fixed on them as they walked into what looked like an old holiday spot, a decaying club house next to a grimy swimming pool filled with murky water and black, frogspawn-like globules on the surface.

"Ghouls," Danse said, not bothering to lower his voice as he shook his head. "This isn't safe here. They could turn feral at any time."

Quinn was stunned. She was new to the Commonwealth to be sure, but even she had been quick to realise the stereotype was wrong. Daisy sprung to mind, painting a vivid picture of Boston from her childhood that Quinn could relate to, her simple goals in life including selling and buying junk, and asking a wanderer to return a book to her old library. The library  _had_  been full of super mutants that Daisy had wanted dead, too – an easily overlooked detail – but the woman wasn't out to hurt anyone. She had known the Brotherhood despised feral ghouls, but this... Quinn turned to face him. "How can you  _say_  that?" The silence that followed made Quinn shiver.

"...Quite easily."

Wet, slapping noises sounded as one of the ghouls approached, his hands held up in front of him. "We don't want no trouble," he said, viewing them with a nervous eye. "We've got enough of it with the muties right now, smoothskin. So how about we keep out of each other's way?"

"No trouble from us." Quinn hit the switch to open her armour and stepped out, moving around the metal shell with her hand extended. "I'm with the Minutemen and your situation was aired on the radio. I was close by, so I came to help." She shot Danse a scowl. "The paladin was simply accompanying me at the time. If he worries you, I'm sure we can work something out." Quinn could feel Danse's disapproval burning through the back of her head, but thankfully he kept his mouth shut.

The ghoul stared at her outstretched hand as he lowered his own, and then took it with a wide smile. Quinn had never touched a ghoul before. Despite his appearance, his grip felt dry and leathery. "Nah, it's fine. Some of the Brotherhood shoot us on sight – mistake us for ferals a lot – but if the big guy hasn't gone for us yet and he's with a Minuteman...I think we're good. Name's Wiseman, and this here is The Slog, only cultivator of tarberries in the Commonwealth."

"Quinn," she said, returning his smile. She pointed to the pool. "Tarberry cultivation? That's pretty smart." Danse made a noise behind her, and Quinn saw red. She shut her eyes, taking a deep breath through her nose, and then whirled around with such ferocity, she saw him flinch. "You're being fucking rude."

"I'm your senior officer. You don't-"

She held up a hand, and to her shock, he stopped.  _Well, I best run with this while I have the chance._  "We're not here on Brotherhood orders. You knew that when we left the ship, knew that when you offered to come with me on my own personal business. You knew I would be running the show, and that you would be here to help. Any other time, I would gladly defer to your judgement and expertise, but in this moment, right now, I am taking the lead, and I'm telling you that you're being  _rude._  Ignorant, in fact. What the hell is your problem?"

Danse seemed to bristle to life, standing up tall, and clutching his gun tight, though Quinn noticed he kept it to his chest. "You are new to the Commonwealth," he shot back, his voice filled with fire. "You think you know what ghouls are like, but I have seen far too many good people pulled down by feral ghouls to trust them."

"They're not feral, they're people!"

"For how long? Say we save them, then how long until they turn and run off to hurt someone else? Will it be next week, when we're supposed to be finding your son, we end up at another settlement being attacked by the same ghouls we just saved?"

"Don't bring my son into this!" Quinn yelled, losing all sense of calm. The entire settlement was deathly quiet, staring at them.

"Then why are we here?" Danse snapped, his own volume rising. "You seemed eager to leave the Prydwen in a rush, but we've barely started and already we're sidetracked. I thought it was a matter of urgency, that we needed to get away as soon as possible. Or were you just looking for an excuse to leave altogether?"

Quinn stomped across The Slog, spraying mud as she went, and jabbed her finger into Danse's steel-plated stomach. It hurt, but she didn't give a shit. He stared down at her, face hidden by his helmet, but his rage screamed through his rigid body language. Quinn glared back up, not caring she barely came up to his chest. "I want to find Shaun more than anything. I would die right here, right now if it meant he was safe. But when I hear that I am within  _walking distance_  of people who need my help, people I can save," she gestured wildly to the watching ghouls, "then I can't walk away from that! I can't live with the thought that I could have kept someone alive and I did nothing to help. And your  _ignorance_ over these people does nothing but cause prejudice and needless fear. Humans are just as susceptible to turning bad, and being a ghoul has nothing to do with it. Look at the raiders all over the Commonwealth! How many are ghouls?  _Not. Fucking. Many._ "

Quinn paused, catching her breath, and rubbed her eyes. Her hands came away wet. With a noise of impatience, she wiped the tears away. "I love my son, and I will find him. But I'm here  _now_. If this isn't what you signed up for, go. Tell the Brotherhood what I'm up to if duty demands it. Or shoot me. I'm helping Wiseman and his people, and that's that." She turned on her heels and marched back over to Wiseman, who was staring at her with his mouth open.

"Look," he said weakly, "if you need to find your kid, don't worry about us. Someone else will bail us out eventually."

"Where are the super mutants?" Quinn interrupted. "Are they holed up nearby?"

"I...you...we don't know. They attack at night. We've managed to fend them off the last two times, but I don't think we can do it a third."

"Then we better set up some defences and get ready to kick their asses."

"Hey..." Wiseman caught her arm. "I think I speak for all of us...thank you. No one ever sticks up for a ghoul, especially not someone from the Brotherhood. Even if this goes bad, just so you know...it still mattered to us."

Quinn opened her mouth, but found no words. Instead she gave a small nod and a smile, and then turned to the rest of the waiting crowd. Danse had walked off, standing in the distance on a grassy verge, staring out into the wasteland. She ignored him. "We need wood, metal...any scrap you can find. We're going to have to build barricades quickly, and if there's any robots or turrets you have lying around as scrap, getting them running will be a big help. Do you have weapons?"

A woman stepped forward. "Deirdre. And yeah, we do. A few rifles, one pistol, and a couple of knives and bats."

"Right. Find out who has the best shot and give the guns to them. Everyone else, you get to take it up close and personal. No point having a gun if you can't use it; it'd more likely to kill you than the mutants. And don't try to be a hero. If it gets too heavy tonight, run. I have power armour – I'll deal with it."

"And your friend?" Deirdre said, her lip curling as she jerked her thumb in the direction of Danse.

"He won't be a problem," Quinn replied, glaring up at the paladin. "And if he is, I'll figure something out."

* * *

It was like preparing for war, and in the small world of The Slog, perhaps it was exactly that. Tree branches had been cut down and sharpened into stakes, set up in an outward fan around the settlement. Metal and wooden barricades littered the perimeter, and two old turrets had been dragged out from the building, though they had been beyond Quinn's ability to fix. Danse had kept out of the way, pacing up and down the borders of The Slog, laser rifle in hand. It had taken some time to realise he wasn't sulking, but in fact patrolling, and she felt her anger towards him soften somewhat. She still wanted to hit him with the butt of her gun, but...less. There had been no opportunity to talk to him, to smooth things over, and now the argument was all she could think of. She looked around and saw with dismay that he was no where to be seen. He had made up his mind and left. She didn't blame him.

"So what does that do?" a high pitched voice said behind one of the barricades.

"Combat chip," replied a familiar voice. "It allows the turret to pick out a target and bring it down without any friendly fire."

"What's friendly fire?"

"When...someone on your team shoots another person on your team."

"That sounds stupid."

"Yes...yes, it is."

Quinn crept closer, straining her ears to listen. She moved around the barricade at a distance to avoid detection and crouched down to watch with a feeling of bemusement. Danse was out of his armour, kneeling down in front of one of the turrets, tinkering while a young, female ghoul sat cross-legged next to him, pointing at various pieces and chattering away. Over on the next barricade, the other turret was active, twitching from side to side as it searched for a likely target. Some of the older ghouls were watching the girl and the paladin with a frown, but relaxed when they saw Quinn nearby. They waved to her and she nodded back, not wanting to disturb Danse.

The girl – who Quinn soon learned to be called Sarah – went on talking, from asking questions about the turret to commenting on the other ghouls and life in her home. Danse continued to work, but he responded when she spoke, asked her questions about her family, and at one point even laughed. There was a crushing guilt in Quinn's chest; it was starting to hurt to breathe. Danse turned to pick up a tool behind him and spotted Quinn. His expression cold, he stood up, glaring down at her. With a sigh, Quinn got to her feet.

"Danse..." she began, but he cut her off.

"I don't want to hear it." The words were blunt and hard; Quinn felt like she had been winded. Danse wiped oil off his hands onto an already dirty rag in sharp, jerky motions. "I understand you're under a lot of strain right now, but even if you disagree with me, I am your commanding officer. Don't you  _ever_  speak to me like that again."

Quinn had to fight to stop her tongue running away from her. A brief struggle later, in which she clenched her fists so hard her nails broke the skin, she gave a curt nod. "Understood, Paladin." Her tone was cutting, and it gave her some satisfaction to see a flicker of worry cross his features. But then they hardened and he returned to the turret.

"Stubborn ass," she muttered to herself as she stalked away. Her body felt numb – his anger was terrible to endure, but his rigid ideals and lack of self-awareness over his bigotry had sparked a burning fury within her that was drowning away her feelings for him.

_Feelings for him? What feelings for him? Get a grip, Quinn_

One of them would have to cave soon, and it sure as hell wouldn't be her.

 


	5. Deathclaw Anger Management

For what felt like the fiftieth time that hour, the tiny screw slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud. Danse grumbled to himself, aware of Sarah's wide eyes on him. It wasn't difficult to filter out any...adult words. Profanity was simply not something he made a habit of. He felt a small lump in the dirt and retrieved the screw with a smile, brushing away the muck and trying to put it back into place. He lost it almost instantly. "Oh for the love of..." He glanced at Sarah. "...steel."

"I'll get Mr Glass!" Sarah piped up, scrambling to her feet, tripping, and nearly knocking the turret over onto Danse. He caught her and the equipment, one in each arm, and righted them both. "Oops, sorry!"

"It's fine. Who's 'Mr Glass'?"

Sarah pointed to a man inside one of the buildings, crouched over a work bench. He straightened up, wiping his brow, and Danse saw that he was a ghoul. A sneer slipped onto his face before he could stop it, but Sarah didn't notice. Not that he would care if she did, obviously. She was a ghoul. Why would he care if she cared? Danse rubbed the back of his neck, a sense of discomfort rising. One ghoul was enough, at any rate. "No, it's alri-"

"MR GLASS!" Sarah bellowed. There was a crash and a yell as Wiseman dropped a box of ammunition on his foot, but Sarah paid no mind to him. Mr Glass, however, looked up and waved. The little girl ran over to him, sandals slapping on the stone floor, and pointed back at Danse, jabbering excitedly. The older ghoul looked at him, down to Sarah, and then back to Danse. After a pause, he nodded, and Danse heard Sarah's squeal of delight from all the way across the settlement. Mr Glass picked up a battered, red toolbox and walked over clutching it to his chest, shoulders and back hunched over in a protective curve around it. He stopped next to Danse, who gave him an icy look.

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't need any help."

"You sure about that, friend?" Mr Glass said with a smile, his voice a gentle wheeze, like a breeze blowing through an open window in a half-hearted attempt to be noisy. "I don't look like much, but I've been doing repairs since before you were born." He glanced over the stripped down turret and knelt down carefully, wincing as his knees cracked, and set down the toolbox. He opened it and rooted through it, continuing. "I'm Arlen Glass. I, ah, keep things in order around here." The ghoul pulled out a tiny screwdriver with a blue handle and held it out to Danse. "Here's what you need. I use it for some of my more difficult toys."

"Weapons are not toys."

"I once said something similar to my old boss...he didn't appreciate it much. The screwdriver will work just as well on that turret as any toy, though."

Danse stared at it for a moment, considering just ignoring the ghoul entirely, but his smile was so disarmingly good natured, he found he had taken the tool and uttered a thank you before he was aware of what he was doing. Feeling slightly obligated now, Danse located the screw in the mud (again) and cleaned it off ( _again_ ) and put it into the slot. The screwdriver fit perfectly into it, and – to Danse's delight – was magnetically tipped, so the screw clung onto it if it came loose. He became lost in the task, fixing all the pieces back into place, but even when the last panel went on, the turret remained still.

"May I?"

Danse jumped. The ghoul was still there, hand outstretched for the screwdriver. Danse looked at the turret and back to Glass' hand. He sighed and surrendered the tool, standing up and stretching his legs while he got out of the way. Glass creaked his way down to the turret and began to work; Danse felt his jaw drop open. The ghoul's hands moved like water as they flowed over the turret, removing the screws and parts with such smoothness the entire spectacle had a sense of unreality about it. A few moments later, Glass spoke.

"There's the problem." A gnarled finger pointed to a chip in one of the circuit boards. A deep flush crept up Danse's cheeks; how could he have missed such an obvious, basic fault? Glass shook his head. "Don't be embarrassed, son. You have a lot on your mind after that argument with your...?"

_My...? Colleague? Team member? My..._

"Friend," Danse replied. He stole a glance at Quinn from across The Slog; she was sharpening a set of stakes using a makeshift knife with the ferocity of a deathclaw. Forgetting himself, he watched her for a few moments before a small cough from Glass brought him back to earth with a bump.

"Ahh, a friend," Glass said, his mouth twitching up at the corners. He picked up the toolbox again in the same parental manner. "But back to the matter at hand. Come with me. I have a few spare pieces you can use.

The two of them walked in silence back to Arlen's workshop. Broken toys lined the shelves, tarnished glass eyes throwing judgement down on them. Arlen set down his box and opened a drawer at his desk, removing a half finished toy. He sighed. "I was saving this for Sarah, but..." He began to take it apart with that same mesmerising fluidity that held Danse's attention. A thought occurred to him.

"You were able to detect the issue with that turret almost immediately," Danse said, folding his arms and scowling. "Those turrets have been there for months, according to Sarah. Why didn't you fix them? You could have prevented all of this."

There was a clunk as Glass dropped his screwdriver onto the workbench; it rolled over the edge and onto the floor without him so much as looking at it. He leaned over the workstation, hands clamped on the sides, still as a graveyard. The toy lay forgotten. When Glass spoke again, the quavering note in his voice had strengthened, dominating all. "All I wanted...all I've ever wanted...is to bring a little happiness to the world. My daughter loved my toys, and I made sure they all had her seal of approval before I shared them with the rest of the world. But the world wasn't interested in toys, only weapons. Only war. It spread, turning my toy factory into a manufacturer of death. I protested. I was fired. I tried to argue that going down that path, using technology to hurt others, would lead to ruin. I was right. But nobody cared. I swore I would never make a weapon as long as I lived."

There was a twisting sensation in the pit of Danse's stomach; Glass' words rang with the same truth as the Brotherhood doctrine. "The Brotherhood works to keep technology out of the hands of people who would abuse it."

"So I've heard. But who is there to stop you from doing the same?"

Danse opened his mouth to shoot back a scathing reply, but found it stuck in his throat. Glass went on.

"I know how the Brotherhood feels about ghouls; you made that very clear when you first arrived. But at least you didn't try to hurt us. That isn't always the case." Glass stood up straight and turned around, his face riddled with despair, eyes fixed to the floor. "We're just people who are scared, people who just want to live another day. We didn't choose this life, and the way we're shunned, the way we're feared, the way some people can't even look at us, let alone touch us...sometimes it is almost too much to bear. A lot of us...give up before our time. Maybe that's why there are so many ferals." Glass sighed. "I've tried to stay away from humans, tried to live peacefully so I could keep my promise...but its inevitable. In the end, I'll always have to sacrifice my work for someone else's fight."

Danse bent down and picked up the screwdriver, offering it to the toymaker. Glass finally met Danse's eye, his own wide with surprise. "Think of the people you keep safe by breaking your promise," Danse said. "Think about what you gain, not what you lose. By helping me, you're bringing happiness to them, protecting them. Sarah might have to wait for her toy, but thanks to you, she'll still be around to do the waiting."

Arlen Glass paused, and then took the screwdriver off Danse with a shaking hand. He gave a weak smile. "Thank you."

* * *

Within ten minutes, the second turret came to life, and began scanning the horizon like its brother. The old ghoul placed a weathered hand on its metal case. "Let's hope this was worth it." His arm dropped back to his side as he walked away, head bent low. Danse watched him go, an odd sensation settling over him; he didn't like it.

"Mr Glass seems sad," Sarah said at his elbow. Danse spun on the spot so fast, he narrowly missed hitting her in the mouth by mistake. She stared up at him, eyes wide. "I'm scared."

"Why?" Sarah looked away, shuffling her feet. He sighed. "I still have to work on the turret, check nothing is loose. Do you want to watch?" Her face lit up as she nodded, clapping her hands and plonking herself on the floor in her usual spot. The truth was, Danse had nothing else he could do to the machine, but something about the girl seemed off. He had seen it plenty of times with his teammates – the over-sharing, the hanging around, the latching onto him. Danse removed the cover panel and poked at the wires at random, sticking his tongue out slightly between his teeth. "Pass me the screwdriver, please." Sarah handed him the tool and he picked a screw, unscrewing and re-screwing it a few times, mostly obscuring the girl's view with his hands.

"What do super mutants do to you when they get you?" The question was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough.  _There's the problem_. Danse stopped what he was doing and sat down next to her.

"Why do you ask?"

Sarah drew her knees up to her chest and hid her face behind them. She was quiet for a few minutes; he waited patiently for her to speak. Eventually her muffled voice gave the answer. "My dad was taken a few nights ago. Everyone told me he was dead, but...I heard they don't always...they don't..."

"Sarah..." Danse cleared his throat. "Your father will be...they won't have kept him alive."  _Or at least you better hope they haven't._

"Why? Why are they doing this?"

"Because they're fi-" Danse caught himself just in time. He had no qualms about calling the mutant scum every vile name under the sun, but right now, it didn't feel like the right thing to do. It wouldn't bring her father back. "Because they're animals, Sarah. That's all they are; animals that can speak and shoot, but they die just the same as any other beast."

Her face hardened. "Then I'll kill them too."

"No. What you'll do is stay out of the way tonight. That's why we're here, to wipe them out." Danse thought she would argue, but instead she gave a grim nod. He stared at her for a moment and then stood up. She looked at him, startled, and he shot her a quick smile. "I need to continue the preparations, and it's getting dark. Head inside." Sarah pulled a sour face, but did as he asked. He sealed up the turret and then followed her, heading to where his armour stood waiting for him, and clambered back inside. He was whole again, the feeling of frailty and weakness fading as he stomped across the settlement towards Quinn. Her face was expressionless as he approached.

"A word, soldier," he said, gesturing to a quiet spot a little way outside The Slog. Quinn put down the roughly hewn stake and sharpening tool and followed him in total silence. It was only when they stopped, she spoke.

"Yes, paladin?"

"I..." Danse swallowed. This had seemed a lot easier in his head. Quinn's cold, blank face certainly wasn't helping. "I wanted to apologise for our altercation before. You were right. I was rude and...I was...I am..." He grappled for the words, but his mind hit a wall.

_a bigot_

No. He wasn't a bigot. No. He just didn't trust ghouls. For good reasons. In case they turned feral. That wasn't bigotry. That was logical thinking, like the Brotherhood had taught him. It was-

"OK."

Quinn's voice dragged him out of the confusion, and he realised she had placed a hand on his steel-plated chest, her expression showing a soft hint of warmth. "OK?"

"OK," she repeated. "I don't like your opinion on ghouls, but opinions don't change overnight, do they? You're Brotherhood, through and through. Your ideals are your foundations; they hold you and your family together. Of course you're going to fight tooth and nail to defend them when they're challenged. Just...please. Please try to be more tolerant. You'll make friends with the people of the Commonwealth much quicker that way."

"I don't care if I have their approval," Danse said with a shrug. "But...I do care if I have yours." Quinn's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline, but she didn't speak. Danse decided to go on. "I meant what I said this morning. You have adapted well to the Brotherhood's ideals...I just never realised they could manifest so differently in you than they do in me. You are quick to put down ghouls and super mutants, as you should be, but..." he motioned to The Slog, "you work to protect as well. You help others, as a good person should...as  _I_ should. I don't think I can change how I see ghouls, but I can tolerate them, and try not to let my...views affect my duty to protect."

"I shouldn't have shouted at you the way I did," Quinn mumbled. "I'm sorry. It was completely disrespectful of me."

Danse held up a hand. "Then let's agree to move on from it and not dwell on each other's mistakes. I value input and criticism from my team, but only when it is done in confidence – undermining a senior officer without discussing an issue first will always lead to ruin."

Quinn nodded. "Then can I ask something in return?"

"Of course."

"Please trust me when I say there's good in a person."

Danse considered this for a moment. "I will trust you." He placed his armoured hand gently on top of hers without thinking, and then pulled away as if he had been burned. Quinn stepped back, flushing.

"Thank you. But we better cut this short. There's still stuff to do and daylight is burning." She hurried away back towards the pile of stakes, scooping them up and carrying them off to the perimeter. Danse watched her go, vaguely aware of Arlen Glass stood observing in the distance, a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to tasty-poptard and dragonifyoudare for their invaluable beta help on tumblr. Sorry this chapter took so long, guys. I've been run into the ground at work and living off 3-5 hours of sleep a night all week. But today was my day off, so I slept in late and finished the chapter!


	6. Toy Soldiers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I see you leaving comments. Thank you so much! Now...uh...how do I reply to them privately and publicly?
> 
> (I am new to this website. Forgive me...)

All was silent, the landscape coated by a quiet that could crush and choke. The inhabitants of The Slog stood at the ready, armed and poised at the boundaries of their home. Some stood firm, others trembled. Arlen Glass was a statue, rusted crowbar in hand; Wiseman clutched a rifle, the barrel trembling over the edge of the barricade. Flanking them all were two hulking figures of metal, staring out into the void.

"When they arrive," Quinn said, her voice a whip crack in the stillness of the air, "follow the paladin's lead." An outbreak of murmurs began, and she spoke louder to drown them out. "If you want to live, trust me. And trust him. He's experienced. He's fought them more times than any of us put together. Follow his lead and he will keep you safe." Danse nodded to her as the the mutterings died away, the hush sweeping over them again.

The minutes ticked away, stretching into eons as the night grew thick and black. They waited.

* * *

In the distance, there were footsteps. Loud, stomping footsteps. Danse shifted his weight and peered through the sights of his rifle. He held up a hand to the others for them to wait, took careful aim, and fired. Red streaked through the air, firing up the dark and revealing a dozen super mutants ahead, their lipless mouths and staring eyes lit up scarlet in the gloom. The shot hit one in the head, knocking it clean off its feet. It was like a dam breaking loose, the fury of the super mutants crashing down onto them.

Screams filled the air, both mutant and human, as the enemy charged. Quinn ducked as bullets flew past her head, burying themselves in the dirt behind her. Danse stayed above the barricade, ignoring the bullets pinging off his armour and firing. "Hand to hand, stay where you are! Ranged, hold position and keep firing!" Several mutants went down as the combined power of the guns and the turrets bit back, but they were still coming. It was then that Quinn heard an odd, beeping noise. It was faint, but it was getting closer. The other mutants ran back while the hounds ran forward. "Focus on the dogs, don't let them get close!" Danse yelled, but then he froze and let his weapon fall, staring out into the distance. Quinn followed his gaze and saw what had captured his attention: a small, red light, flicking on and off.

"What is that?" she shouted, but Danse had leapt to his feet, cutting her off.

"Get back, everyone get back!" he roared. "Get back from the perimeter, go go go!"

What the-?

Danse fired a few more shots, and then turned to her, motioning to the machete-like blade which Quinn had been sharpening stakes with earlier. She tossed to him and he caught it, wedging it haphazardly into the utility belt on his power armour. He threw himself over the barricade, tearing off towards the horde. Quinn struggled up and tried to follow, but Danse yelled over his shoulder at her. "Stay back, soldier! Get them out of here!" He ran on, guns blazing, and by the light of the laser blasts, she finally saw what had set off his panic. Thundering straight towards them was a super mutant, eyes wild and mouth screaming obscenities, a fatman shell with and a detonator tucked underneath its arm. Shrieks of terror rippled through the ghouls behind her, the splat of mud sounding as they turned and ran. A mutant hound bounded past her, but before she could take it down, there was a dull thud as Arlen Glass leapt from the shadows, swinging at the dog with all his might. It staggered, snarled, and lunged for him, but a crack snapped through the air and the hound fell dead, a hole between its eyes.

"Come on, Arlen!" Wiseman yelled, shakily reloading. "We can't do shit out in the open!"

"Are you alright?" Quinn cut across Wiseman. Arlen nodded and she turned on her heel, sprinting after Danse. Seconds later, an explosion threw him off his feet.

* * *

"Get back from the perimeter, go go go!" Danse signalled for the machete, caught it with one hand, and sprinted on, barely aware of what he was doing with it. Quinn was trying to go with him. A fear ripped through him like he had never felt before. She could not follow. He had to take this thing down now, whatever the cost, whatever might happen. He threw back an order over his shoulder, "Stay back, soldier! Get them out of here!" Before he could check that she had obeyed, a hound snapped at his leg, nearly knocking him over. He hit it with the butt of his rifle and shot it until it crumbled to ash. Danse looked up. The mutant was still running, laughing manically as it sprinted towards him. It was right at the edge of the safe distance; if the bomb went off now, the settlement would be unscathed...but he wasn't sure about himself. Would the armour protect him? He could shoot it down, but if it didn't die...if he missed? It would be better to retreat, perhaps. They were only ghouls after all…

A familiar stomping sound made him turn around. Quinn was running full pelt towards him, despite his order for her to stay behind. If she got any closer, she'd be in the range of the nuke. Danse's mind was made up. He pulled the machete from his belt and hurled it as hard as he could; it spun through the air and cleaved clean through the mutant's arm. The mutant howled, clutching at the gaping wound at its shoulder, and ran back after the nuke, which was rolling away towards the other mutants. Most of them scattered when Danse took aim, but some of the larger ones saw the threat and acted. Bullets hailed down on him, sparks flying off the metal, but Danse shrugged it off the way only a paladin could do. _Ad Victoriam._

* * *

The earth shook and Quinn staggered, the weight of her armour the only thing holding her in place. A huge fireball bloomed out as debris and dust whirled past her, filling the air with a deep, grimy smoke that made her think of morning fog on the Boston coast. Despite the air filters in her suit, Quinn found herself coughing as the acrid smell hit her nose. But where was Danse? With mounting worry, she raised her rifle and moved forward, trampling through blood and scorch marks, the Geiger counter ticking away as she made her way to where she had last seen him. His rifle lay on the ground, the metal glowing slightly. It'll be a miracle if the parts haven't melted together, Quinn thought. She looked around desperately for some sign of him, and spotted what looked like a heap of black rock in front of a set of deep furrows in the ground. Quinn ran over, his rifle in her hand, and knelt down beside him. "Danse?" She shook him. "Danse?"

The mound of charred steel groaned. "What have I told you about shaking the injured?"

"Humans! Die!" Apparently some of the mutants had survived, though Quinn couldn't fathom how for the life of her. A spray of bullets hit them, and she moved herself in front of Danse without thinking, dropping his gun and raising her own. A cry came from her right.

"Get them!" The ghouls were back, running across the battlefield with a mixture of weapons at hand. Only Wiseman remained behind at the barricade, firing a series of quick, successive shots at every mutant that moved. Quinn grabbed hold of Danse, and with some considerable effort on the part of her armour, hauled him back up.

"Your rifle is fucked," she said, thrusting her own combat rifle into his hands. "Take this and stay here. You'll do better with long range."

"What about you?"

"I have my shotgun. Stay-" Quinn began to say, but Danse wasn't paying attention, staring straight past her. She turned to see what he was looking at and saw, in the outskirts of the main fight, a small ghoul pelting the mutants with rocks. Danse pushed past her without a word and sprinted off, his path crooked as he staggered with speed. Swearing loudly, she pursued, shouting his name, but he ignored her. He stooped down to pick up the twisted remains of a bumper sword and hit a mutant with it, taking away half of its face with a single swipe. He moved on without finishing the job, dropping Quinn's rifle and opting for sheer strength to carry him through, smashing and slicing his way through the enemy. Reaching the centre, Danse threw the sword like a spear. It took out the nearest mutant, and he darted forward and hurled a punch into the other, knocking it out of the way. Grunting with effort, Danse scooped Sarah up into his arms, turning his back to the battle to use his body as a shield. Quinn caught up, rifle reacquired, and blasted the brains out of a mutant about to bring a pipe down on Danse's head.

"We've got this!" she bellowed. "Get her out of here!"

Danse didn't need telling twice. His limbs ached and screamed, his vision spinning, but he stomped on as Sarah struggled against him, throwing rocks from a bundle in her arms back at the mutants. Danse slipped and tripped his way across the settlement and kicked the door to the building open, ducking inside and setting Sarah down. She tried to pull away from him, but he held on as tight as he dared.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

"Sarah-"

"I said let me go!" She beat her small fists on his armour.

"Enough!" Danse winced as she flinched and cowered, but he didn't let go. "You have to stay here. If you don't, you will die. Do you understand that?"

"They killed my dad!" Her eyes were brimming with tears. "You said they killed him! You said they were animals! I want to kill them too!"

Did she really take my words so much to heart? Danse shook his head. He'd think about that later. "Yes, they did, and I understand that, but you aren't strong enough right now. We are here. We will kill them. Anything else will be a waste of your life. Would your father want you dead on his behalf?" Sarah didn't answer. She sat quietly for a moment and then burst into tears, clinging onto Danse. It was one of those rare moments where he didn't know what to do. His head hurt. He had to help Quinn. He had to kill the scum outside. But he couldn't leave Sarah alone like this.

"Sarah?" Arlen Glass ran inside, crowbar ready to strike. He dropped it as he saw Danse. "Is she hurt?"

"No, but she needs looking after. Stay here. Help her." Danse peeled Sarah away from him and handed her to Glass. She took one look at the older ghoul and buried her face in his shoulder. Good. He stood up and felt the room spin, forcing him to grab hold of a nearby work surface.

"Are you alright?" Glass asked, patting Sarah's back while he frowned at Danse.

"Fine." Danse mumbled, staggering back outside. The fight was still raging on. He ran back as fast as he could manage, ignoring the urge to vomit, searching the floor for a new weapon. Instead he found a ghoul, covering in blood and lying curled up in a ball, whimpering. Danse looked down at him, back up at the mutants, and then grabbed the ghoul, dragging him back to the building. "See what you can do for him," Danse said, setting down the ghoul next to Glass.

"I...I don't know anything like that," Arlen stammered.

Danse paused, glanced back at Quinn – who was using a super mutant's face as a punching bag – and hesitated. The ghoul continued to whimper in little, breathy intervals; he knew what Quinn would want him to do. He set to work, ripping open the ghoul's shirt and opening the basic medical set on his armour. A rag was placed between the ghoul's teeth to bite down on, and then, using a pair of special, elongated forceps, he removed the bullet in question. Glass held the ghoul down while he worked, and watch with a pale face as Danse cleaned the wound as best he could, injected a stimpak into the affected area, and then dressed the injury to stem the bleeding. The ghoul patient had fainted twice during the procedure, but now he was awake, sweat pouring down his face as he looked up at Danse with alert eyes.

Danse ignored him. He had wasted enough time here. He needed to get back to the fight. Dragging himself to his feet, he strode for the door. The world jolted out of his control, everything becoming a violent blur, and he found himself crashing to his knees. The need to vomit was overwhelming and the floor wouldn't stop moving. Sarah shrieked from somewhere far away, but it didn't seem important. Was he concussed? Probably. It didn't matter. He had to keep going. He had...

His surroundings lurched forward, the ground flying towards him far too quickly. Everything went black.

* * *

_Danse?_

He could feel a smooth cool surface beneath his fingers, hard, comforting...he twitched his hand, waiting for the familiar clunk of his armour, but heard nothing except the click of his own wrist. With a groan, he tried to open his eyes, but the light above sent shockwaves of pain through his head. Better to keep them shut for now. "Where's my armour?" he murmured.

"Danse?" A pair of hands gripped at his shoulders, tight, digging their nails in. He lifted an arm of lead and touched them. They felt soft beneath his palms. The hands relaxed a little. "Danse, are you okay?"

"Light is a bit bright...turn it down..."

"Cut the lights!"

There was a click and Danse sensed the darkness wash over him. Bliss. He finally forced his eyes open, to find himself flat on his back, Quinn leaning over him, her frantic features highlighted by the dim glow of the lights outside. It hurt too much. He closed them again. "Sorry. I tried to get back out, but..."

"Don't be sorry," Quinn said, her voice cracking. "If it wasn't for you...you know, no one died? You took out most of them with that explosion."

"I have my moments."

* * *

 

Quinn laughed and hugged him carefully, smiling as he gave her a clumsy pat on the back. When she righted herself again, she saw he'd opened his eyes once more, though they looked unfocused. "Deirdre used to be a nurse, before the war. She says you've got a concussion, but that it's not serious. According to Glass you were only out for about five minutes, but she wanted to wait for you to wake up again before we gave you this." Quinn held up a stimpak. "It'll have to be injected into your head."

Deirdre joined them, taking the stimpak off Quinn and bustling over Danse. There was an unpleasant noise as the needle went in at the base of the neck angled up towards the skull, and she saw him clench his fist tightly with a grunt. All at once, his body slackened. Deirdre cleaned off the needle and threw it into a nearby bucket. "He'll be a bit funny for a few minutes while the stim kicks in, but then he'll be as right as rain."

"A bit funny? Since when do stimpaks make you high?"

"No, it's nothing to do with the stim. It's just the way his head injury will clear up. A concussion is soft tissue damage, brain injury. Nothing to laugh about."

"He's brain damaged?"

"No, no. It sounds a lot worse than it is, sorry. All you need to know is he'll start talking shit for about five minutes while the stimpak does its work, and then he'll be fine." Deirdre smiled. "I'll leave you two alone while I see to Jones. He took a nasty shot, but your tin can friend here patched him up alright." She swept away.

Danse stared up at the ceiling, eyes still unfocused, a huge grin on his face. "This is a good place to be," he slurred.

"Why?" Quinn asked, resisting the desire to giggle.

"Here...with you. Killing mutants. Saving your son. Doing good. Reminds me when I first joined. Not responsible for the death of my people. Just...doing my job." A look of sadness fell onto his face like a shadow. "I hope Krieg is proud of me."

"He will be," Quinn replied, her stomach churning. She contemplated taking his fingers and squeezing them, but decided against it. The ring at her neck was burning her for the thought. She sat in silence with him until his eyes drooped shut and almost immediately snapped open again. Danse sat up, rubbing his face, and looked down at his body.

"Where's my armour?"

Quinn pointed to the doorway, Danse's armour in a horizontal heap on the floor, the back cracked wide open. With her help, he stood up and wandered over, inspecting the damage. Despite its new, soot-black coating, the power armour was relatively unscathed. His rifle, however, was another matter. Most of the metal had fused together, and when he opened it up, several of the key components were ruined. He didn't say much as Quinn pulled up his armour whilst inside her own, but once he had climbed inside it, he seemed to cheer up. He stomped around the perimeter with Quinn's rifle, checking the bodies of each and every super mutant, adding another bullet to their heads for good measure, and then dragging them away from the settlement and out into the wasteland. Quinn tried to help him, but he waved her away. "Go talk to them and check there's nothing else before we leave."

Apparently, Wiseman didn't seem to think so. He shrugged, beaming at her. "I think that's it. They're dead, we're safe. I don't know how we can ever repay you."

"Just..." Quinn shot Danse a guilty look; he was just visible on the horizon. "Just remember that the Minutemen helped you. That's all." The Minutemen...the Minutemen would have been slaughtered. Without Danse, without the power armour, the settlement would have been nothing more than a meat house for the mutants. There was a lump in her throat, which only increased when Wiseman said they would be forever in the debt of the Minutemen.

Things were quiet as Danse and Quinn walked west, their helmets tucked beneath their arms. He didn't seem to remember what he'd said to her whilst he'd been lying on the floor, and she had no intention of reminding him. It was then she noticed he hadn't brought the laser rifle with him. "Where's your gun?"

"You saw the state of it. I can't use it now."

"I know, but I thought you would have at least tried to repair it."

Danse shook his head. "Beyond repair. I left it there as scrap. They gave me one of their old rifles in exchange."

"I'm sure we can find a place that will sell us an old laser rifle," Quinn said. "I'll fix it up for you, if you like."

"Do you know how energy weapons work?"

"No." She flashed him a grin. "But I'm sure I can learn."

"Then...I look forward to the result."

Quinn laughed, and after a moment, he joined in. They continued on, side by side, as dawn began to break over the Commonwealth.

* * *

In the dim light of his workshop, Arlen Glass bent over a twisted piece of metal, working furiously. The laser rifle was badly damaged, completely irreparable, but...some components had survived. With the delicacy of a master, he lifted out what he needed, and patched together the rest, before adding them to a toy. The toy he had wanted to finish. Her wound was still fresh after all, and any bit of light he could give, he would. What a surprise it had been, when the paladin had approached him, his bulk seeming to fill every space in the room, and handed him the rifle. He could have kept it. He could have thrown it away or scrapped it for parts himself. Instead, with a confused, uncomfortable look on his face, he had given it away – given it to Arlen. He plucked another piece from the gun and transferred it to its new home, from bad to good. It clicked into place, and he knew he was finished. He sealed the toy up and checked it over, closing his eyes as it made its childish noises. His daughter would have loved it. But if he couldn't provide for her, then very least he could do is make the world a little brighter for someone else.

Clearing his throat, he turned to his open workshop door. "Sarah!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So basically I must be insane. I couldn't decide what to do with my day off, so I decided to write another chapter even though I only posted chapter 5 today. Massive thanks to dragonifyoudare for their amazing beta skills. Inspiration for this chapter came from Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers (the film), with the opening sequence to Helm's Deep. One of my favourite moments in film, ever, and something that I still think is perfection.


	7. Clever Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for how long it took me to finish this. I've had two weeks of night shifts, combined with Christmas and work exhaustion, which just meant when I sat down to write I was just...way too tired to do it.
> 
> Despite the wait, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Merry Christmas!

_It had never occurred to Quinn how loud breathing could be. A great weight pushed on her chest, stopping the flow of precious oxygen, leaving her rasping and wheezing for more. Air collected slowly in her lungs, and her throat tightened in the anticipation of the release.  Too loud...too loud...._ _Her breath was coming fast now, a rapid, ragged nothingness that passed through her lips leaving her light-headed and wanting. She could feel her hands slick with sweat inside her power armour, and her stomach crawled as she pressed her back against the brick wall._

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Quinn pulled her gun close, a jolt of fear coursing through her as metal ground on metal. So much noise. Inside her helmet, blood trickled down her face in tiny rivulets, hanging off her chin for a second before dropping down to the hard interior below. It was a steady drip, a pattering of rain, that sounded like gunshots to her ears. She held her breath, ignoring the other warm, damp sensation that was spreading at her side, sticky liquid saturating her clothes and oozing down towards her leg. If she moved..._

_Tap-tap._

_Tap._

_Tap-tap._

_The was a low scratching sound, drawing closer to her, accompanied by a deep, terrible rattling, wet and hungry. Quinn's knees trembled as the pain in her side mounted, a cold feeling growing from within. She shivered, her head spinning._

_I'm sorry, Shaun. I'm sorry. I couldn't do it. I couldn't get to you. I'm sorry_ _._

_Nate's image surfaced in her mind. He was holding Shaun, who was wrapped up snugly in a cartoon character blanket that had once belonged to her mother. Nate had always fussed about Shaun catching a cold, and had practically drowned their child in jumpers and blankets. Despite the hammering of her heart and the tears in her eyes, Quinn's mouth twitched into a faint, nostalgic smile. The Nate in her memory smiled back and held out his hand to her, keeping Shaun tucked under his other arm. Without thinking, Quinn reached out, her family so clear that she knew that if she tried hard enough, she would touch them._

_Tap. Tap._

_Pause._

_With an agonising slowness, a long, yellowed claw curved around the wall, brick dust sprinkling down as the razor-sharp tip scraped along the rough surface. Quinn could hear the creature’s breath rattling in the back of its throat, a deep, guttural sound that cleaved through the silence._

\--

The start to the morning had been a good one. The glow of victory surged through her; Quinn felt so light she thought if she stepped out of her armour she would float away. Not only that, but she was back on the road once more, a friend at her side. She glanced at the paladin, considering him. It had only been a short time that she had known him, but yet there was something about him that drew her to him. Perhaps it was his habit of speaking like he was quoting directly from a military manual, or maybe the fact he was loyal and honest to a fault, but Danse felt like a man she could trust with her life.

"I'm sure we can find a place that will sell us an old laser rifle," Quinn said. "I'll fix it up for you, if you like." Danse turned to her, an eyebrow raised.

"Do you know how energy weapons work?" he asked, his tone light as he tilted his head slightly to the side. There was a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite place, but it reminded her of when she had set up a tool rack for Nate in his man shed.

"No." She flashed him a grin. "But I'm sure I can learn."

"Then... I look forward to the result."

Quinn laughed, and after a moment, he joined in. They continued on, side by side, as dawn began to break over the Commonwealth. Light rolled down the hills and the sky brightened to a murky yellow, so different from the brilliant golds and pinks of Quinn’s memory. She stopped to watch it anyway, letting Danse stomp on for a few seconds before he realised she had lagged behind.

“Is there a problem, soldier?” He was frowning at her, but there wasn’t a trace of annoyance on his face. Instead, he walked towards her, features softening as he drew closer.

 _He cares,_ thought Quinn. _He really cares about the people he serves with._ _He really cares about...me?_ She shook her head. “Just...admiring the sky. It looks different from what I remember, but...still beautiful, in its own rugged way.”

Danse looked up, shielding his eyes. “I had never thought about it like that before.”

They stood in silence together, and Quinn hummed to herself as the sun crept higher, streaking the landscape with muted colour. An old Glenn Miller tune came to mind, and she let herself flow with the song, bobbing to and fro on her heels as she hummed.

“You...like music, don’t you?” Danse asked. The question hung awkwardly in the air, as if he had been trying to fill a space that didn’t exist. Quinn nodded anyway, deciding to spare him from embarrassment.

“Doesn’t everyone?” she replied, tapping her fingers on her gun in time to the rhythm in her head.

“It is...enjoyable. But I’ve never made time for it outside of my time in the workshop.”

Quinn vaguely remember Danse humming along to the radio as he had worked on the Prydwen, and she smiled. He couldn’t hold a tune to save his life, but the image of him lost in his craft, a shimmer of pure, unstrained happiness etched into his handsome features as he worked, was something that brought her joy by proxy. It was the same way Nate’s passion towards tinkering and coin collecting had made her happy. “You should make time for it. Music always helps me when I’m stressed, especially if I’ve had a really shitty day. There was this one song that I used to always put on when I was feeling down... _A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square..._ the Glenn Miller version was my favourite. I used to beg Nate to dance with me to it, but he always said he was waiting for the right moment before he would…” Quinn’s face dropped as her voice trailed off, lost in her thoughts of Nate. He had promised that he would dance with her to it, and never did. Was that his fault? Had he ever intended to dance, or had the war cut his plans short? Quinn shook her head and stomped past Danse; he stepped into line with her and threw her several glances as they walked on.

“This Nightingale song,” he said eventually, “what does it sound like?”

She didn’t answer at first. Humming a tune was fine when the mood was right, but all Quinn felt was hurt and on the spot. The words were just out of her reach, dancing between her fingers as she grasped for them. “I may be right…” she half mumbled, half sang, her face scrunched up in concentration, “...but I’m perfectly willing to swear, that when you turned and smiled at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…”

There was a long silence. Somehow, they had both stopped walking again, though Quinn didn’t remember how. Danse was staring at her, wearing an odd expression on his face. All the seriousness had melted away, the lines of leadership smoothing out into something gentle, a hint of admiration nestled just beneath the surface. “That was-” he began, and then froze, staring over Quinn’s shoulder with widening eyes as he pulled his gun up.

“Wha-?” Quinn began, but Danse hissed for her to be quiet as he crouched down low. Confused, she copied him and looked out to the hills on the horizon. A dark shape was stood towards the west, large and hulking, with long legs, even longer arms, and a great pair of horns on its head. It scratched at the ground with a set of monstrous claws, sniffing and moving their way.

“It’s following our scent,” Danse whispered, putting his helmet on with a clunk. “We need to go _now_.”

“Do we?” Quinn watched it move with some interest. It reminded her of a dog a little; the way it licked its lips as put its snout to dirt, its tail twitching every time something caught its attention. Of course, this was only a temporary state -- she had fought a deathclaw back at Concord, not long after she had staggered blindly out into the Wasteland, grief-stricken and disorientated from her cryo pod. Their might was not to be ignored...and yet she had managed that one single handedly in power armour whilst fighting raiders at the same time. Danse was here with her, and he was far more experienced than she was. She told him this as she put her own helmet on. Danse shook his head.

“That’s no ordinary deathclaw,” he said as the two of the crept away to the south, slinking past rusted old cars and cracked roads. It was surprising how quiet Danse could be in his armour when he really wanted to. The stomps had been muffled to dull thuds. “That’s an older one. You can tell by the colour and size. I don’t know what you fought on your own, but any deathclaw is a battle for your life, power armour or not. And a lone male...the males usually travel in packs. A mature male on its own means it was too nasty even for other deathclaws.”

“How can you tell it’s male?”

“The horns. They’re facing forward.”

Quinn followed him in silence, pondering exactly how he knew the ins and outs of deathclaw anatomy; she supposed he’d been chatting with Senior Scribe Neriah about the various critters the Wasteland had to offer. That seemed like something he would do: learning everything he could before going into a situation. Or maybe it was common Wastelander knowledge that she was not privy to; the feeling of being an outsider returned to her in full force as they shuffled on.

It was only when they reached an old crossroad, choked with weeds and cars, that Danse relaxed again. He paused, scanning the landscape above them for signs of life, and then stood up. “I think it’s gone the other w-”

A thundering roar echoed across the empty hills, and their eyes snapped simultaneously to the same spot. At the top of the hill was the deathclaw. Its arms were extended out as if inviting them into a deadly embrace, its body tilted forward and its mouth wide open as it unleashing its harrowing scream at them. Quinn had barely raised her weapon when it was upon them. Its speed was incredible, rushing down the slope without so much as a stagger; this, coupled with the sheer size of it -- _oh fuck it’s so much bigger up close_ \-- was enough to make her realise Danse was right. But Quinn had no time to dwell on this -- it lunged forward in one giant leap and took a swipe at her.

Had not been for Danse dragging her to the side at the last second, her head would have been taken clean off her shoulders. Had it not been for her power armour, she would have been sliced in two. The blow pieced the metal and struck the soft body encased within as it lifted her off her feet, ripping her from Danse’s grip and sending her hurtling into a nearby car. The landing knocked the wind out of her, and she hit her head on the interior of her helmet. Her side felt like fire, a wet, sticky feeling growing as she lay there on the crumpled roof, staring up at the sky. It was a steely blue now, heavy and grim, with a dash of colour. _What a mediocre thing to see before I die._

“Quinn, get up!”

Danse’s voice was a jolt of electricity coursing through her body. Her brain screamed for her to move, and she rolled off the car and fell with a heavy crash. She got to her feet with an unexpected quickness, surprised to see she had kept hold of her gun. The deathclaw was considering her, ignoring Danse despite his gunfire. Quinn was the smaller prey, the weaker prey. Danse was little more than an annoyance to be dealt with. She was the target. It circled towards her while she tried to put the car between them. Then, with an almost deliberate slowness, it extended its arms and prepared to leap again, but Danse was running towards it from its side, still firing frantically, yelling, anything to catch its attention, and it was working. Apparently deathclaws were not immune to irritation, and this one was getting ready to swat the source. Quinn’s eyes flicked to  a pile of cars directly behind the beast.

Quinn didn’t know where the idea came from. Whether she had been inspired by a flash of genius, pure stupidity, or the simple pressures of a 10-foot lizard with scythe-like hands batting her around the Commonwealth like a pro tennis player, the result was the same: Quinn pulled a grenade from the pouch at her waist and threw it. It soared through the air, straight past Danse’s head, and rolled under the nearby pile of cars. Danse made a noise that sounded suspiciously like “Oh da-” and dove out of the way as it went off. The bang made the deathclaw turn towards the noise, and the paladin took the opportunity to sprint over to Quinn, grabbing her arm. Her heart was hammering in her chest as the deathclaw looked back at them again, a low growl in its throat. _Well that didn’t have the effect I-_

There was a blinding flash and force that sent them both flat on their backs. Quinn looked up in time to see a burning inferno engulfing the deathclaw, before a large pickup truck tumbled down from the heavens and landed on it with a satisfying crunch.

“Take that, you fucker!” Quinn yelled, shaking her fist at it. A pair of metal hands grabbed it and pulled, dragging her to her feet.

“Come on!” Danse yelled, pulling her with him. The two of them ran for their lives, Danse hauling Quinn along with all his might while she clutched at her side. A building began to take shape in the distance, while behind them the enraged roars of the deathclaw became fainter as smoke and flame blocked it from view. Quinn could feel herself lagging behind, the pain almost unbearable. She was holding Danse back, but he kept a firm grip on her as he led the way. “Good move, soldier,” he said, slowing a little as they reached the open yard of the complex. Quinn gasped for breath. “Quick thinking, even if it was reckless. Not that I’m complaining. We can hide in here and-”

Two things interrupted him. The first was the distant sound of the deathclaw wrenching itself free of the twisted remains of the truck, the crash of metal and its furious howls cutting through the crackle of fire. The second was a turret locking onto their position and unleashing a flurry of bullets down on them. Quinn’s legs felt like they would give out at any second as she crashed through a crumbling section of the building, barely aware of signs scattered about the site that read ‘National Guard Training Ground.’ The terrible calls of the deathclaw were gaining on her, mingling with the sound of gunfire; she didn’t want it to be the last thing she heard.

The turret ceased fire, the clatter of shells almost musical in the eerie silence. Quinn pressed herself up against the wall, aware of how loud her breathing was. Where was Danse? Had it got him? The thought was so awful, she pushed it away with fierce determination. No, Danse would be fine. He had to be fine. She couldn’t lose another.

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

The noise felt so deliberate, Quinn wondered if it was toying with her. Were deathclaws capable of playing with their food? The scratches were getting closer, each tap ramping up her heart rate by another degree. With an agonising slowness, a long, yellowed claw curved around the wall, brick dust sprinkling down as the razor-sharp tip scraped along the rough surface. Quinn could hear the creature’s breath rattling in the back of its throat, a deep, guttural sound that cleaved through the silence.

A loud scream made Quinn jump; the claw withdrew with such force, it left deep gouges in the wall. More screams joined the chorus. The deathclaw stomped right past to meet the hoard of feral ghouls that swarmed toward it, its tail whipping from side to side and taking chunks out of the brickwork. Quinn looked at the ridges of its enormous back, praying it wouldn't turn around. Ghoul after ghoul lurched across the training yard with frenzied speed, throwing themselves at the towering, lizard-like creature. Although each powerful swipe delivered by the deathclaw was enough to cut any ghoul too close clean in two, the others seemed unfazed, clambering onto it as they gnashed their teeth and beat their fists on its scaly hide. The deathclaw lumbered forward as the ghouls latched onto it, and Quinn, feeling weak at the knees, slowly backed away. The vision of Shaun and Nate was gone, and a small, guilty part of her longed for it to return.

“Soldier!” a voice hissed at her, their hand clamping down on her arm. It took all her self control not to cry out; she turned to find Paladin Danse holding onto her, crouched down. Relief flooded through her, so strong she could have hugged him there and then. Instead, she let him pull her away, the clanking of their armour barely audible over the roar of the battle behind them. They moved around the building, Danse making sure they were out of sight of the nearby turrets, and Quinn keeping an eye on the ghouls, who were being obliterated with frightening efficiency.

“Danse,” Quinn said in a low voice, “as soon as that thing is done with them, it'll be after us again. Do you have a plan?”

“I always have a strategy prepared.”

That sounded more like code for, _I'm going to utterly bullshit my way through this, but I don't want you to know that_. Quinn didn't care. Whatever got them out alive was fine by her. The main entrance was open and they slipped inside without incident.

The smell of rot and damp was overwhelming; the years had not been kind to this place. Rubble littered the floor in high, uneven mounds, moldy recruitment posters and prewar junk strewn haphazardly across the little hills and valleys of plaster and brick. Dust hung heavy in the air, swirling in agitation at the intruders of the ruin. In one of the other rooms there was a rotting desk, with a skeleton slumped onto it. Quinn wondered what their last thoughts had been before the bombs had snuffed out their life. Fresh bodies also occupied the floor; ghouls, some with their limbs splayed out, others curled up in a fetal position. Danse held out a hand to keep her quiet.

“They’re still alive,” he whispered so low that Quinn almost didn’t hear him. “Look.” He pointed at the nearest one. Its chest was rising and falling ever so slightly, fingers caressing the debris beneath its palms with the smallest of movements. Danse carefully drew out a combat knife from the sheath on the leg of his armour and nodded towards a nearby maglock door with a terminal next to it. “If we can get through that and seal it behind us, we may be able to wait out the deathclaw. But we have to work fast. I saw you hack into a terminal at the police station when we first met. Give that one a try while I exterminate these...things.”

Quinn nodded and edged around the ghoul, wincing as her armour made its usual creaks and clunks. The ghoul stirred, but didn’t open its eyes, and moments later, Danse had crouched forward and ended its life with the quick slash of his blade. The efficiency he wielded it made Quinn slightly uncomfortable, but she pressed on, turning her attention to the terminal. She hadn’t realised that Danse had seen her creeping about the old police station, all that time ago. It felt like an age now. It was a comfort to know that he had no intention of asking her exactly _what_ she had been doing there, as that would have raised awkward questions about Nick. Valentine had been with her that day, lurking out of sight the second he saw the Brotherhood was present; helping them had really been the only option as far as Quinn was concerned. Nick needed information that was on a terminal in the station, and as he couldn’t get it without revealing himself, it had fallen on Quinn to do the legwork. Now here she was, deeper in the Brotherhood than she ever thought she would be, and torn between their ideals and her own.

 _Christ,_ she thought as she bent over the terminal and began typing away, _think about the task at hand. It’s not the time for soul searching._ Hacking was a lot more difficult in the power armour, but Danse would remove his damn uniform hood before she got out of her armour with a deathclaw on the prowl. She chuckled quietly to herself as she worked, trying to remember the tips and tricks Mark had taught her in college to negotiate her way through the system. Hacking the systems to try and find the exam questions beforehand had been a hobby of Quinn’s -- not that she ever used the answers herself. The black market for cheating helped her pay her way through her law degree, or at least the social life side of it. In the end, it had pissed Mark off pretty bad when she had surpassed his own skills and taken on a little enterprise of her own. _We stayed together all that time...I think we surprised ourselves with that one, never mind anyone else._ Still, he could have gotten her expelled if he’d really wanted to, but he never spoke out against her, even after their last fight. Good kid, really.

The terminal flashed and bright green characters filed across the black screen; she’d cracked it. She heard Danse murmur “outstanding” from somewhere behind her. Quinn bit back a laugh as she went on, bypassing the simple open command; it was better to open the door  _after_ she went through the complex fiddling to set the door on a timer so that it shut behind them. If the deathclaw could follow them across the hills by scent alone, it would follow them into this building. She wasn’t about to leave it an easy path to its next meal. To her right, there was a familiar rattling noise, and the handle to front double doors started to shudder down.

“Quinn, we’re out of time,” Danse hissed. “Quietly get the door open n-”

“Are you _shitting_ me?” Quinn yelled, mashing at the keys of the terminal as panic shot through her. “That fucking thing can open _doors_?!” _***(1)**_

The maglock door sprung open as the deathclaw burst into foyer, its body filling up the room, spines and horns scraping against the edges of the hole in the ceiling. It lunged forward as Danse practically body slammed Quinn through the doorway, both of them crashing through the wooden door on the other side and sending fragments of wood and splinters everywhere. She shrieked with pain, clutching at her side. Danse rolled off Quinn and pointed his gun, but before the deathclaw could reach for them, the maglock door slammed shut. The deathclaw howled, throwing its weight against the reinforced mesh fencing around the maglock door, but to Quinn’s relief, it held. She had no idea what the army had been using in their fences prior to the war, but it was saving their lives now.

Danse’s arm hooked under hers, throwing it awkwardly over his shoulder, and they set off down the corridor in a loud and clunky fashion. If the deathclaw decided to go outside and look for another way in, it would find it here. The walls were filled with holes, the external turrets clearly visible through them, and the windows were simply decaying frames with dirty, broken panes. A ghoul was waiting for them at the other end, but was quickly dispatched by a single shot from Quinn’s pistol. She stepped over its head, the back of it splattered all over the faded linoleum floor, and grimaced as they moved into the barracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to dragonifyoudare for their invaluable beta services. They're truly amazing and help me so much.
> 
> *(1) basically my reaction the first time a deathclaw opened a door and walked into a room I was hiding in while I was playing Fallout 3.


	8. Miss United States

The atmosphere was gloomy in the barracks, with a certain heaviness that seemed to press down upon her. Danse pulled her along, helping her they travelled up to the next floor, the silence only broken by the _clunk clunk clunk_ of their suits. The lonely noise didn’t last; a familiar scream filled the air. They had barely made it up the stairs when the room seemed to flood with ghouls from every direction. One leapt straight at her from behind as she was mid step; she teetered on one leg for a moment, pulling the ghoul to her front, and then fell forward, the crunch beneath her armour signalling the end of that particular attacker. Adrenaline was pumping back through her, wiping away the pain and driving her to her feet with a scream of her own. Her vision tunnelled as she pulled out her shotgun, blasting away every feral she could point it at.

_Click._

“Fuck!” There was no time to reload, and she swung the gun with all her might, cracking open the skull of the nearest ghoul; the wound in her side flared to life, overcoming the adrenaline so fiercely she felt her knees buckle.

“Covering!” Danse bellowed, smashing the butt of his rifle into the face of a feral and then shooting the ones near Quinn in the head. With shaking hands, she reloaded, letting out a string of swearwords as she dropped some of the cartridges in her haste. _Keep going, keep going…_ She reloaded, aimed, and the head of one last feral ghoul exploded in a spectacular gory mess. With a sigh, she gave Danse a thumbs up. To her shock, he returned it. There were slight scuffing noises in one of the next rooms, and Quinn narrowed her eyes before getting to her feet with a groan. She edged forward, gun raised.

“Something’s still here,” she said, scanning the area.

“Affirmative.” The paladin moved up to join her, his back turned to hers.

There was what looked like the remains of a bathroom in front of her, tiles lit up with an eerie green glow. From her limited experience with ghouls, Quinn knew they liked to hide in dark spaces, and that there was always at least one that would jump out and try and eat her. After today’s events, though, Quinn felt that if all she had to deal with was a asshole ghoul sulking in the toilet, then she could consider herself lucky. It wasn’t even an hour into daybreak yet. Praying for the best, but expecting the worst, Quinn raised her shotgun and stepped into the bathroom.

The cubicle door crashed open, the green light dazzling her. _Lo and behold, that one asshole ghoul comes out of its toilet,_ Quinn thought stupidly. It was blinding; bright green-yellow skin that was translucent and glowing at the same time. She could see the outline of its skull and the dark pattern of its veins as it stepped towards her, arms raised.

“Glowing One!” Danse shouted. “Don’t let it near you! Back, back, back!”

Quinn stumbled away, shielding her eyes as best she could. She watched as its head snapped back repeatedly, the shots Danse fired seeming to have little effect. Then the world spun out of control as something hard and fast hit her from the side, sending her tumbling through the large hole in the ground and down to the floor below. Quinn landed with a loud crash, pieces of tile and splintered concrete spraying up into the air. The feral that had knocked her off balance didn’t seem to notice the fall, scrambling to its feet and lunging for another attack. It was larger than the others, with muscly arms despite its emaciated frame, and jumped on top of her, beating its fist down onto her helmet. The blows didn’t so much as dint the armour, but the strikes were strong enough to slam her head back repeatedly on the floor. Letting out a roar of rage, Quinn threw back a blow of her own, sending the ghoul spinning away and crashing into a rusted, crooked bed frame that had been lying on its side. Quinn struggled to her feet, dizziness and fatigue sapping the strength she needed to move in her armour, and stomped over, bringing her foot down on the struggling ghoul’s head. She felt sick, and not just from her injuries.

Above her there was a bang, and the glowing ghoul fell down through the hole she had come from. Seconds later, Danse followed, landing with both feet onto the creature as it tried to stand. Green blood splattered out in a wide arc, illuminating everything it touched.

“That was the last of them,” he said, stepping away from the body, Quinn saw his feet and calves were day-glo green, and felt the giggles return in full force. She didn’t care that Danse was staring at her, or that her laughter was edging towards hysterical, echoing uncomfortably around the ruined room. They were safe. The adrenaline was wearing off, making way for the pain that had been patiently waiting for her. Her knees buckled and Quinn fell onto all fours, still giggling while Danse rushed to her side.

“I’m fine,” she muttered as he pulled her to the corner of the room, stood her up, and started undoing her power armour from the outside. Danse ignored her, cracking it open and scooping her out, before sitting her down with her back propped up where the walls met. He took his helmet off and laid it down next to her. All the lines in his face had returned with a vengeance, deep with worry.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, his eyes flicking down every second or so to her wound. “I just need to find something to clean your injury. Hang in there, soldier.”

Then he was gone, and Quinn stared out blankly to the opposite wall, a crushing feeling of loneliness pressing down on her.

* * *

Time was of the essence. How much blood had she lost? How severe was the wound? The dark stain in her vault suit had been a good indicator of the extent of the damage, but there were other factors to consider: depth, infection, internal damage. Had a vein or artery been hit? An organ? He knew perfectly well that Quinn wouldn’t be still standing -- or...sitting -- if that were the case. It didn’t stop the unfamiliar sensation of fear from bubbling up into his chest. Danse pushed it aside; now was not the moment for panic. He sprinted into the next room, stepping over the remains of ghouls and pre-war skeletons, spotting what he needed immediately. On the wall, there was a medical box; he wrenched it open. A bottle of water, some surgical tubing, and a stimpak greeted him. Despite being able to see all of its contents, Danse rooted frantically through the container for something that would act as an anti-sceptic. Nothing. The one thing he needed and he didn’t have it. He used his limited supply at The Slog. Stupid. Short sighted. The kind of thing he expected from a junior knight, not an experienced paladin.

Danse stepped back and glanced around. There was nothing. The fear was increasing now, prickling all the way through him, from his core to the tips of his fingers. He ran back through the area, launching himself up the collapsed ceiling to the upper level, searching for another medical box. The main rooms were bare, so made his way back onto the opening corridor. If he could just find a supply cupboard or a doctor’s office…

There was an office, but not a doctor’s one, its filing cabinets tipped over into the wall, the desks all askew. Despite the skeletons strewn everywhere, Danse was hopeful, heading straight for the desk. Personal experience at the citadel and aboard the Prydwen had taught him that if there was one place that alcohol would be hidden, it would be a desk. And if he was lucky…

“Yes!” His hands closed around a bottle of vodka in the second drawer down. Everything else he needed was in the kit on his armour. Holding the bottle as firmly as he dared -- power armour didn’t give the most sensitive of grips -- Danse headed back down the stairs. The temptation to jump down to the second floor was there, but if Quinn had moved, he risked hurting her, or damaging the bottle if she hadn’t. Thankfully, she had stayed where she was, though alarm shot through Danse as he saw she had slumped forward. He set the bottle down and clambered out of his power armour, his thought process shifting into leadership mode. The panic had gone as quickly as it had arrived; he felt a cool sense of calm sweep over him, and he took the medical kit from its container before he knelt down beside her.

“Hey,” she mumbled, lifting her head up, her hand clamped to her side. “I wondered if you’d done a runner.”

Danse didn’t answer. He was deep in concentration as he reached forward and unzipped her vault suit, pulling it right down to expose the wound. Quinn’s face took on a deep shade of scarlet and she tried to pull away from him, tugging up her clothes. Danse grabbed her hands and wrenched them down. “Now is not the time for niceties, soldier,” he snapped. “This need to be treated _now._ Hold still.” With practiced hands, he unscrewed the vodka bottle and poured some of its contents onto his palms, rubbing them together and wincing as it stung his dry skin. It would have to do. There was no other way to clean them. He then poured some of it onto a brilliantly clean piece of cloth. The Brotherhood made sure to sanitise everything medical before it was used it the field -- one of the perks of being part of the family. Danse held the now soaked cloth aloft. “Deep breath, soldier. This will...sting.” He pressed it against the wound.

Quinn’s hand shot out and clutched at his arm, her nails digging in deep as her eyes widened and her head twitched back. Her mouth open and closed wordlessly, before her lips pulled back in a snarl while she gritted her teeth together. Danse could sense it coming. Once the initial shock had worn off, a moment of pure, unrestrained-

“FUCK!” Quinn screamed, slamming her fist into the wall. She bent her head forward, chest heaving. “Fuck, fuck...fuck…”

Both hands were clinging to Danse now. Probably a good sign that her grip was so strong. He dabbed at the wound and cleaned it as best he could, and then injected the stimpak. Stimpaks were excellent for healing, but they weren’t the fix-all that civilians thought they were. Better to know basic medical training -- or even better, a doctor -- than to rely solely on stimpaks. Or at least, better to know exactly how to use a stimpak than to just inject it anywhere and hope for the best. Quinn’s hold on him relaxed and she shifted slightly to prop herself up better. Danse nodded, more to himself than to her, and unravelled the last of the bandages, binding the wound up.

The drive that had settled over him was slowly lifting; Danse was suddenly very aware that he was staring at Quinn with her clothes pulled down to her waist. A bra still covered her dignity, but it didn’t make him feel any better. An intense heat was shooting up through his face and his words ceased to work. “I, uh, I’m sorry...I shouldn’t be...I’ll just…” he stammered. Better to abandon the situation now than make it worse. Danse stood up in silence and walked back to his power armour, pretending to adjust it while Quinn dressed herself again.

* * *

Quinn’s side ached and stung as she wrestled her arms back into her jumpsuit, but the pain was secondary to the embarrassment coursing through her. It was stupid, really. She was an Adult Woman with an Adult Life...a man seeing her bra shouldn’t be bothering her as much as it was. It was for a good reason, after all, and it wasn’t like he had seen her _naked_ …. Quinn groaned and put a hand to her face, cheeks burning at the thought.

“Are you alright?” Danse glanced over his shoulder at her; Quinn could see the telltale signs of red lurking beneath his unshaven face.

“I’m fine,” she said, digging her heels into the floor and pushing up against the wall to try and stand. “You can stop hiding in your power armour now.” He strode over and put his hands under her arms, carefully lifting her upright. Quinn looked at him and smiled. “Thanks, paladin.”

“It was no trouble.” He let go of her, watching her as she regained her balance and shuffled over to her power armour. “...what are you doing?”

“Suiting up.” Quinn grabbed hold of the valve and tried to turn it, a sharp pang firing up in her side. She cried out, clutching at her bandaged wound, and slumped against the suit. “Help me with this, will you?”

“No.”

Quinn stared at him, certain she had misheard him. “I can’t open this on my own. Please help me.”

Danse folded his arms. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Quinn snapped, feeling her temper flare up with her pain. “Stop dicking around and help me suit up.”

This time the frown on his face held traces of annoyance, but his voice stayed calm and level. “You’re not going anywhere, soldier. You’re injured, you’re tired, and there’s a deathclaw on the prowl. You can’t even open your armour -- how do you expect to fight anything in your state?”

“In my state?” Quinn spluttered. She glared at him, feeling a heat in her face that had nothing to do with embarrassment this time. “What state? I’m fine! But if you won’t help, I’ll open this...stupid...thing...on...my... _own._ ” Each word was punctuated with an attempt at the valve, the final twist causing so much pain, Quinn felt her knees give way. She clung onto the valve for dear life, the sudden jolt causing another wave of agony. The tears were close now, stinging her eyes as she tried to pull herself up, her feet sluggish and struggling to respond.

A pair of warm, rough hands closed around her wrists, helping up again. Danse was standing next to her, gripping her firmly, holding on even as she tried to pull away from him. “Quinn,” he said in a low voice, ”I know you want to find your son, but getting yourself killed won’t solve anything.”

It was too much. Quinn yanked her hands free, wanting to hit him for holding her back, although a part of her knew he was talking sense. Instead, she shoved the power armour as hard as she could. Her body simply bounced off it, and she landed on the floor with a bump and a string of swearwords that would have made a raider blush.

Danse knelt down beside her, poking his fingers through the hole in her vault suit and peering at the bandages underneath. His face relaxed and he caught her eye. “You had almost no sleep at The Slog, and after today’s battle, your body has reached its limit. You _need_ to recuperate.” He nodded to a bed in the corner of the room, a grimy window next to it filtering weak light through like a faint spotlight. “Lie down. I’ll stay on watch. Tomorrow, we’ll head south and west through Boston. There’ll be more enemies there, but with any luck, we’ll keep out of their sight...and if the deathclaw decides to follow us, it’ll have other targets that it can pick on.”

Quinn didn’t reply. She didn’t trust herself to speak as the emotions whirled around her head. One in particular stood out the most: another day wasted. A hand appeared in front of her, making her jump. She took it, an odd sense of comfort sparking from the feel of those rough palms, and Danse gently pulled her upright.

“Go lie down,” he ordered, his eyes kinder than his tone.

She knew she was defeated. With a sigh, Quinn limped her way over to the bed, each step twinging her side. When she reached it, however, she was shocked to find… “Clean sheets!”

“Soldier?” Danse glanced over at her, halfway through climbing back into his armour.

“Clean sheets! Clean sheets!” Quinn sat on the bed with a bounce, ignoring the stabbing sensation that followed her lack of care. “Clean sheets! Actual clean sheets!” she pulled them up in her hands, scrunching them under her fingers and smelling the fabric. That was a mistake. Despite the lack of grime and damp (which was another mystery, considering how moldy the foyer of the main building was), they still smelt stale and...well, Quinn didn’t like to think what else. But it didn’t matter. The mattress was the same. For the first time since she had arrived in this godforsaken wasteland, she had found a _clean bed,_ and right now she needed any small amount of joy to drag her through her frustration. Quinn kicked her boots off, feeling bad that she was smearing the sheets with dirt and blood, and then wrapped herself up tight, her head just poking out of the mass of crisp, grey linen. Danse watched her from across the room wearing a mixed expression of confusion and amusement; she grinned at him, and then felt it slip from her face as she looked at him properly for the first time that day. There were deep shadows under his eyes and his skin looked pale, even in the dim light of the room. With a grunt, she sat up. “Aren’t you tired too? We could take turns with the watch.”

Danse shook his head. “You need it more than me. Besides…” he looked uncomfortable now. “...I don’t always sleep well. I see little point in wasting time making the attempt.” He stopped, brow creasing, eyes unfocused as he stared out blankly at the wall behind her, and then turned away to face the entrance instead. Quinn stared after him. If she didn’t know better, it seemed like Danse thought he had said too much, though she couldn’t understand why. Everyone had to have sleeping trouble in a place like the Commonwealth. She shrugged to herself -- _ow_ \-- and settled back down in the bed -- _ow Jesus Christ ow_ \-- looking up at the ceiling. A sudden tiredness washed over her, and within minutes she had fallen fast asleep.

* * *

Nate's chest heaved as he lay on the ground, dust swirling around him as blood poured from the hole in his gut. Thunder-cracks of rifle fire sounded overhead, mingled with the blast of landmines consuming his friends, devouring their legs, their arms...their lives. He struggled against the force pinning him to the floor, snapping his head from side to side...and saw her. This time, Crofts lay in a crumpled heap near him, her head twisted at an odd angle. Half of her face had been ripped away, the edge of the flesh and exposed bone charred and crumbling. Her hair was singed and smouldering, her clothes smoking slightly. But one eye, one bright, blue, accusing eye stared out from the depths of her face.

_You let me die. You killed me. That mine was meant for you, and I took it instead. You let me die._

Nate tried to raise an arm to shield his face from her gaze, but found they were staked to the ground by shrapnel, a shard in each of his forearms. The eye continued to burn into him as Nate started to scream.

“No, I didn't mean for it to happen! I didn't mean it! I prayed to God to save me, but I didn't want him to take you instead! I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry! I-I-”

“Nate!””

Hands were holding him tight, pinning his arms in place. Nate struggled and sobbed, the blue eye slowly fading into the bedroom light. Quinn held onto him, kissing his cheeks, whispering into his ear. “I'm here, hun. You're at home, in our bed, safe.” Nate gasped hoarsely, cold sweat drenching his brow as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, but he stopped struggling. Quinn slowly let him go and stroked his face, still mumbling reassurances when the shakes hit him. She helped him sit up and held him to her breast, stroking his hair with the care and comfort only she could bring him. Nate clung to her arm like a child, the vision of Crofts still etched into brain, but dimming somewhat.

“Thank you,” he croaked, placing a hand on her swollen belly.

“Anytime, hun. Do you want some water?”

Nate nodded and sat up, wiping the sweat away from his face with a trembling hand. When he looked up, Quinn leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. He froze, a delay between his head and his body, but then slipped his arms around her and pulling her close as he said, “I love you.”

“And I love you.” Her fingers were cool against his burning skin; Nate tilted his head towards her, trying to touch as much of her as possible. Quinn caressed his cheek with her thumb. “I'll get you that water.”

Nate watched his wife shuffle out of the bed and waddle off into the hallway, her nightdress tight against her large stomach. As soon as she was gone, Nate's face crumpled and he hunched forward, dragging the sheets towards him and burying his face in them. What a fucking joke he was. He was going to be a father, someone for his kid to look up to, and yet he still had nightmares like a child and snivelled into his wife's arms when he woke up. Quinn was the strong one, not him. He was pathetic, not worth a damn. The tears were threatening to break through again; Nate bit into his arm hard to stop them.

“Hun?”

Nate sat up sharply. He hadn't heard her come into the room. He could taste salt in his mouth.

“Oh my god!” Quinn slammed the glass of the water down onto the dresser, slopping it everywhere, and hurried over to him, dabbing his mouth with her nightdress. “Are you alright? What's wrong?”

“I'm fine,” Nate muttered, trying to push her away. “I'm fine. Stop...stop _fussing_.” The last word came out sharp, cutting – she flinched away from him and Nate felt a fresh wave of self-disgust wash over him. “I'm sorry, honey...I just...” He wiped away the blood on his arm and from his lips, unable to look at her. What she thought of him...he didn't want to find out. He didn't want to see disappointment or revulsion in her eyes. Not her eyes. Anyone's but Quinn's. The thought of her recoiling from him riddled him with dread. He jumped as she touched him under the chin and moved his face to make him look at her.

“We'll get through this,” she said softly. “If our marriage can survive your fucking gun tinkering habit, it can survive this. We will get through this together, and we'll be stronger for it. I'm here for you, whenever you need me, wherever you need me. But please don't hide from me, hun. Tell me what's wrong; let me in and let me help you. Please.”

It was too late to stay calm now. Nate's vision had blurred so badly all he could see was a vague outline of her. He groped like a blind man, his eyes stinging hard, and pulled her towards him.

* * *

Quinn woke with a start, gasping and fighting the sheets. “Nate! Nate!” she rasped, reaching out for his place at her side. Her hand met empty air and she tumbled out of the single bed, returning to the Commonwealth with a crash. Darkness had fallen; she could barely see in the gloom.

_stomp stomp stomp_

“Are you alright?” The paladin was at her side again.

_If he pulls me to my feet one more time today…_ “Vodka,” she said aloud. “Bring me the vodka, please.” The stomping returned, moving away from her as she rubbed her forehead, and then returning. A bottle was pressed into her shaking hand. Quinn fumbled with the top for a few seconds, sighing slightly as it came loose. She tossed it aside without thinking, hearing it rattle away under the bed, and took a swig; it burned, as expected, ripping down her throat and searing her stomach. Cheap shit, or at least cheaper than what she had bought back home with Nate. It smelt and tasted like paint thinner. Quinn took another drink and leant back against the bed frame, her eyes closed.

“You’re drinking it neat?”

Quinn didn’t need to open her eyes. The disapproval in his voice was screaming at her. “Yep. Best cure for a shitty dream.”

“You don’t need that poison to cope.” His words were hard and sharp. Quinn did open her eyes now and stared at him, shrinking back from the fierce glare he gave her.

Forcing a smile, she held up the bottle. “Want to share?” It was the smallest of motions, but Quinn saw his hand twitch; she had him.

“I’ve seen too many good men and women fall prey to alcohol,” he said, shaking his head as his frown deepened. “Too many good people using the wrong methods to fight their demons.” His eyes flicked to the bottle and back to her.

“Fine,” she sighed, putting it down with a clunk. “Ah, crap, where’s the lid?” Quinn rolled onto her knees, noting that the pain in her side had dulled down to a faint ache, and scrambled under the bed, carefully holding the bottle aloft so as not to spill it. She rummaged in silence for a minute or so, and found the lid hiding next to a piece of rubble. “Gotcha, you son of a-”

“Quinn?”

Quinn jumped and hit her head on the underside of the bed frame. “Motherfu-” She stopped, pressed a hand to the sore spot, and sighed. “Yes?”

“I am sorry for...causing you embarrassment earlier. I should have warned you before I exposed you like that. I did it to help you as soon as possible, and if I had to do it again, I would, but…” Danse’s voice trailed off as Quinn shuffled back out from under the bed, her ass wiggling in the air as she went.

_She's beauty and she's grace,_ Quinn thought to herself, wincing as her knees scraped on the floor. Free from the enclosed space, she sat up and sneezed, and then wiped the dirt from her face, only succeeding in smearing more from her sleeve onto herself. Quinn set down the now sealed vodka bottle and turned to him. “Have you been thinking about that all this time?” she asked, a small smirk on her face.

Danse flushed. “No,” he said, a little too quickly. Quinn’s smirk broadened and she stood up.

“You probably saved my life, Danse,” she said, stretching out her arms and rocking on her heels. “And now I’ve slept, I feel pretty damn good. So don’t worry about it.” Quinn let her arms drop and looked around. “Where’s my gun?”

He held up the combat rifle in his hands. “I borrowed it while you were resting, as it’s of a higher quality than the one the ghouls gave me.” He held it out to her and she took it.

“Just going to stretch my legs. I won’t be a minute.”

“Do you want me to accompany you?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. If anything was left in here, it would have attacked us by now.” Quinn flicked on her Pip-Boy light and set off in a stroll towards the kitchen. There was a section of collapsed ceiling which led back up to the next floor. Shouldering her rifle, she scrambled up it, ignoring the slight pang in her side as her feet slipped and skidded on the old wooden boards. The were several footlockers dotted about the place, some on their sides or upside down, others so badly rusted they looked as if a gentle breeze would finish them off. Quinn poked around a few of them and found one that was completely intact. Producing an old screwdriver and a bobby pin, she set to work on the simple lock -- _Mark, you were such a bad influence_ \-- busting through it fairly quickly. Quinn sifted through the junk and empty alcohol bottles, and then spotted something at the bottom, tucked away nearly. “Ah, what’s this then?” She picked it up and held it out in front of her. “Not bad. You’ll do nicely, I think.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh. Look how much quicker I can update when I DON'T. HAVE. WORK.
> 
> Sigh. Oh well. I still have another six days off to make a few more chapters. I hope you enjoyed this one!
> 
> Thanks to my friend Musashi1596 on tumblr for his beta help while my usual beta takes a well earned rest.


	9. Islay Island Dreams

“So, what do you think?” Quinn gave a little twirl as she walked, tripping over her own feet. She stumbled, arms flailing, and staggered forward, righting herself before she ran head first into her own power armour. With the air of a cat that firmly believed it had intended to do that all along, Quinn leaned casually against the armour and raised an eyebrow as she threw a cocky grin at a bewildered Danse. He blinked, and after a beat of silence, started chuckling.

“Where did you find that?” he said when he’d calmed himself down, indicating to her new clothes.

Quinn plucked at the military fatigues. “In a footlocker upstairs. It’s a bit big, but it’s better than wearing this.” She held up the torn, bloodstained vault suit. “There’s no way in hell I’d be able to patch that hole up. Shame, really. It has...unpleasant memories attached to it, but…” Quinn let her arms drop, the cuff of the jumpsuit trailing along the floor.

“I could fix it for you.”

Quinn shot him an apprehensive look, but the sheer sincerity in his tone made her instantly relax. He wasn’t making fun of her. It was enough to make her want to laugh again. “You...you can _sew?_ ”

“Yes, I can sew,” Danse replied, sounding miffed. It was remarkable how much a man dressed like a tank with legs could look like a wounded puppy when he really wanted to. “The Brotherhood teaches all new recruits to sew. It is imperative that we are able to maintain our own equipment on the field, _including_ our clothes. It’s an extremely useful skill, and -- _why are you still smirking?”_

Quinn’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as the paladin glowered at her. She couldn’t help it. Everything about it, from his indignant defensiveness to his embarrassed annoyance, reminded her of the day Nate had come home from work and tried to sneak his brand new sewing kit through the house without her noticing. She had taken it and hidden it where he had left his screwdriver lying in the kitchen, so naturally he couldn’t find either of them until he begrudgingly asked her for help.

Without thinking, she paused for breath and said, “Nate, I-”

An awkward quiet fell over them. There was a heavy, cold sensation in the pit of Quinn’s stomach, expanding and freezing all it touched. She shook her head, opening and closing her mouth, but words failed her. Mercifully, the paladin didn’t comment on her mistake.

“When we return to the Prydwen, I’ll patch the hole for you,” Danse said quietly, “if you want.”

Quinn nodded, feeling as though her chest would burst with gratitude. “Yeah.” She paused. “I’d like that. Thank you.” She looked down at her Pip-Boy, tracing her finger around the section where the holotape was nestled, waiting to be activated.

“Would you like me to leave you alone?” Danse was looking uncomfortable now, as if he’d intruded on a wake.

“No, I’d rather you stay.” She walked past him, dropping herself onto the bed, and picked up the vodka. As she unscrewed the top, Quinn saw his slight frown, but he said nothing; it seemed there were some hurts he was willing to let her soothe with alcohol.

Quinn cradled the bottle, letting the acrid smell burn her nostrils before swigging from it. She coughed, hating the taste, but loving the warmth that spread through her chest, like a greeting from an old friend. “I used to drink a lot, you know,” she said, taking another mouthful with a grimace. “Not as a way to cope, but just because I liked the burn. Whiskey was always the favourite; I felt like I could do anything with whiskey. I had a cabinet full of all the finest brands I could afford, and Nate even ordered me a bottle from Islay when we found out I was pregnant with Shaun.”

“He bought you alcohol when you were pregnant?”

“Yeah, his idea of a joke. He knew I’d wanted to try Islay for years, but I’d never gotten around to it. So as soon as Nate realised I couldn’t drink, a bottle of the stuff arrives on our doorstep. He presented it to me with such a shit-eating grin.” Quinn smiled at the memory. “The ass. I never even got to try it; I was too tired looking after Shaun, and then the bombs…” Quinn sighed. “He could sew, too. That’s why I was laughing at you - you remind me of him a little.”

Danse stepped closer, looming above her in his armour. “Tell me about him.” He paused and then added hurriedly, “If you’re comfortable to do so, that is.”

Quinn breathed out through her nose, mulling over her thoughts. Tell Danse about Nate? Where could she even begin?  “I guess a good place to start would be how we met.” Quinn stretched out her legs and looked up to the ceiling, gathering the memories in her mind. “I’d gone out with my friends for a few drinks, and we bumped into a group of cadets.” She meant this literally. As it turned out, doing excessive jazz hands all the way up to the bar was a surefire way to get someone's beer spilt down her favourite dress. That someone had been Nate.

She continued, “He was tall. Dark. Handsome. You know the cliche. But a little on the skinny side. Not my usual type, but…” Quinn laughed. “He ripped his own t-shirt trying to wipe his drink off me, and he was so embarrassed, even though it had technically been my fault. I couldn’t help but get him another drink to make up for it. Mark -- my ex -- he dumped-sorry, he had _ended_ our relationship the week before, and I’d sworn never to touch another man for as long as I lived. Well, that promise went out the window pretty quickly. By 3am, I had my arms wrapped around his neck, dancing to Etta James, both of us wearing matching fruitbowl hats being sold by the bar. My friends wouldn’t stop teasing me for _weeks._ ”

“That sounds...colourful,” Danse said, looking slightly bemused. “Were all pre-war courtship rituals like that?”

“Nah, but Nate and I were a special case, I think. Everything we did ended up being completely ridiculous, despite our best intentions. Like our first date. He took me to the Swan Pond in Boston. They’d just pushed the boat out onto the water, and Nate bent down to pull out a bottle of champagne he’d hidden in his coat, just as I moved to take my seat. His ass hit my hip and knocked me straight off the boat. _Christ_ , I was mortified.”

Danse was laughing, a mischievous little grin on his face. Any second now, Quinn felt like he would present her with a bottle of Islay. Her chest hurt at the thought, so she pushed it away and continued. “Nate, though...he jumped straight in after me, waving the champagne in the air, and sat down in the pond at my side. Opened the bottle there and then and offered it to me, since he’d left the glasses on the boat. The staff weren’t exactly impressed, but we ignored them and took a few swigs. Then he picked me up bridal style, still holding the damn champagne, and waded back out. Got a bit of applause from the park-goers and everything, as well as a free drink each from the little cafe by the water.”

“A roaring success then?”

“You know what? I think it was.” What others may have considered a bad date became the foundations for their relationship. No matter how rough or stupid things became, they always had each other's backs, through and through. She told Danse as such. “But Nate was that kind of man. He was always there for me when I needed him the most, even after he joined the army properly. He became a lot more serious then; always about the job, always focused, always had his mind on the next task, never relaxing or stopping to consider himself.…” Quinn sighed, running a hand through her hair. “My father didn’t help matters much, either. He was an old-fashioned man. He didn’t like that Nate was...black.”

Danse blinked at her. “Black what?”

“Black skin.”

More silence. Quinn could practically hear the cogs ticking in Danse’s head. Eventually, he spoke. “I don’t understand.”

“Me neither.” It had been a very outdated view, something her dad had clung to long after the rest of society had moved on, but it had caused problems all the same. Her dad had been absolutely fine with black people until his white daughter became engaged to one, and then suddenly there had been a problem. “My mother always said I had the patience of a saint for putting up with dad’s bullshit, but really, the one who turned the other cheek was Nate; he stayed polite, stayed the bigger man. My dad got over himself eventually, but I don’t think I ever really forgave him for it. Nate did, or at least, he acted like he did. I don’t really know for sure.”

Quinn stared out past Danse, lost in thought. After the wedding, she hadn’t bothered with her dad. Her parents had been divorced, so she could visit her mother without ever having to see _him_.  Had he died alone on the day of the bombs, sat in his grotty living room, a beer in one hand? She would probably never know. “My dad was a damn _bigot_ , and Nate endured him for my sake.”

“Your husband was a good man,” Danse said gruffly.

“He was,” Quinn agreed. She tapped her fingers on the case of the Pip-Boy absentmindedly, when suddenly an idea came to her.

“I could talk about him all day...or I could just let him speak for himself.” She held her arm aloft, the green light of the Pip-Boy highlighting Danse’s kaleidoscopic expression. It flitted from confusion, to dawning realisation, and finally uncertainty.

“Soldier, I…” Danse coughed, shifting on the spot in discomfort. “That’s your private...I mean, I would be honoured if you shared, but...I...are you sure?”

Quinn didn’t even have to think about it. She smiled and nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Then...the answer is yes.”

Quinn navigated to the tape, the familiar whirr and click sending pangs of loss and love through her body, a current that drowned her in sorrow. When it began to play, she listened, mouthing each word without realising. She pictured Nate holding Shaun in his arms, jigging him up and down as he talked. Her eyes stung and she blinked fiercely to stave off the tears. How long had it been now? How many times had she heard this? The pain should have lessened by now, but it still felt as fresh as the day she had emerged from the vault. Danse stood completely still, stony-faced, as the tape babbled on. Quinn watched him, noticing again how exhausted he looked. Yet here he was, taking care of her. Supporting her. Standing by her. It suddenly occurred to her that for the first time ever, she didn’t feel quite so lonely and lost at the sound of Nate’s voice.

“ _...Bye, honey. We love you.”_

There was that quiet again. Quinn almost didn’t want to fill it; the echo of Nate would be lost if she did. She traced the corners of the Pip-Boy screen with her finger. Less than a week ago, she had been playing that tape multiple times a day. When was the last time she had stopped to listen to Nate’s voice?? Since the Prydwen? Since she had been taken to the ship’s exterior by Danse and left to her thoughts?

“I’m sorry for your loss, soldier.”

Quinn started, coming back to Earth with a bump. She looked up at the paladin to see him staring down at her, a mixture of pity and concern written across his features. He stepped even closer, crouching down on one knee, finally making himself level with her. “Truly, I am. I knew that you were grieving, but…” He seemed to grapple with his words. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been any good at this kind of talk. I just...he was a good man, and you clearly loved him very much. And…” He stopped, a deer caught in headlights, and made a vague gesture with his hand.

“Thank you,” Quinn said, and she meant it. He struggled with his words, but he made the attempt anyway, and she felt nothing but gratitude for it. “Seriously, thank you. It helps to talk about it,and if someone else knows what kind of person he was, what he sounded like, what he was; it makes him still feel...real.”

“You… you’re welcome.” The red was creeping back into his skin again. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and then Danse stood up and took a step back, glancing around the room. “Still a few more hours until dawn. I don’t think it will be safe to move until then; daylight will provide us with maximum visibility to spot any-”

“Danse.”

“Yes, soldier?” He turned to her.

“When was the last time you slept?” She folded her arms and stood up.

“Is that important right now?” His heavily shadowed eyes did not meet hers, and he started to inspect the old rifle the ghouls had given him.

“Yes. When was the last time you slept?”

“...I’m not sure. The Slog, I think. But it’s irrelevant; someone has to keep watch until morning, and as your senior officer-”

“Yeah, and that someone will be me.” She walked towards him, arms still folded, adopting the stern motherly tone she had reserved for Nate when he used to stay up too late in his shed.

“But-”

“To quote someone wise,” Quinn said, trying not to laugh as Danse’s face scrunched up like a pug at her constant interruptions, “you’re tired. How do you expect to fight anything in your state?”

“That is _not_ the same thing,” Danse huffed.

Quinn perked an eyebrow. “Oh, isn’t it?” She stared him dead in the eye and then made a long, deliberate yawn. Danse’s face twitched, eyebrows knotting together in concentration as he fought to keep his mouth shut. Quinn moved closer and yawned again, louder this time. The paladin broke, covering his mouth with a steel plated hand as he let out an even longer, louder yawn than anything Quinn had produced.

Quinn grinned triumphantly and pointed at the bed. “Lie down, Paladin. You know I’m right.”

With an exasperated noise, Danse set down his weapon and began the task of climbing out of his armour, taking about five minutes longer than he normally did. Quinn tapped her foot noisily until he finally stood free, still towering over her despite being about a foot shorter now. Throwing her an irritated look, he loped over to the bed and settled on it, drumming his hands on his legs. When Quinn continued to stare pointedly at him, he muttered to himself and lay down, pulling himself under the sheets. Quinn smiled to herself and opened up her power armour with no difficulty. By the time she had climbed inside and picked up her gun, Danse had already drifted off to sleep.

* * *

It had been hard not to watch Danse while he slept. For starters, he was a lot more interesting than the ghoul corpses and pre-war skeletons scattered all over the place. But it was also how he held himself while he wasn’t conscious. Gone was the rigid posture and frown of concentration, the lines of his face smoothed out to faint creases. Perhaps what Quinn found most peculiar was his position; curled up tight into a ball, arms shielding his face as he slept. Quinn observed him for a while, lost in thought. He had mentioned that he didn’t sleep well, but as far as she was concerned, he had gone out like a light and hadn’t moved for about three hours. Not only that, but he had been adamant about staying awake, despite giving her the third degree for the same thing earlier.

_You are a mystery, Paladin_ , she thought, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

Suddenly, Danse’s relaxed face knotted into a frown. His arm started to twitch, only slightly at first, but becoming more aggressive with every passing second. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he began mumbling to himself as his breathing quickened and his fists clenched and unclenched. Realisation clicked in her head and she stomped over, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “Danse! It’s just a dream! Don’t-”

Danse lashed out, his yell of panic becoming one of pain as his fist struck the chestplate of Quinn’s armour. His eyes bulged and he clutched his hand close to his stomach, head bowed forward, unable to speak. Eventually, he let out a low groan and looked up at her.

“Are you alright?” Quinn asked. It was a stupid question, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Fine, but I’ve slept enough.” Danse kicked his way out of the sheets, still clutching his swollen hand, and stood up. If anything, he looked worse than before. The shadows under his eyes were still present, and his pale skin hada sheen of sweat glistening over it.

He glanced to the window and nodded. “First light. It’s time we moved on.” Without another word, he stalked over to his power armour. Opening the valve with one hand, he gingerly clambered inside, making small hissing noises between his teeth as he flexed out his arms. Then he picked up his rifle and stomped off, not so much as glancing back at her. Quinn jogged to catch up and followed him through the double doors that led  outside.

The sun felt offensively bright after the darkness of the barracks; Quinn squinted through the glare, realising they were shut in by another metal fence and maglock door combination. Danse gestured with his gun towards the terminal, and she immediately started working on it. It didn’t take long to crack, and the door opened.

“Good work, soldier,” Danse murmured, raising his rifle defensively as he edged out into the open. He threw his hand back when Quinn tried to follow. “Wait. Let me scout the area. If anything should happen, head back inside.” He moved forward, slowly, carefully, his weapon darting from side to side as he scanned the horizon. After a few moments, he relaxed and signalled for her to join him.

With Quinn at his side, they edged around the building, heading south, while Danse whispered to her. “Just past County Crossing, there’s a bridge that will take us towards Boston. Provided we aren’t being followed by the deathclaw, we can follow the riverbank and then take the bridge directly into Diamond City to resupply before we head north-west to your destination.”

“Why Diamond City for a supply run? What about Goodneighbor? It's much closer.”

Danse shifted uncomfortably. “As you know, the Brotherhood and the ghoul population of the wasteland do not have an...ideal relationship. While I don’t doubt we would get what we need in Goodneighbor, I wouldn’t trust its quality.”

“We could leave our power armour outside the city and go in posing as civilians.”

“Would _you_ leave your armour unattended near Goodneighbor?”

Quinn was about to argue that one of them could stay hidden with the armour, even though she was beginning to see his point, when Danse suddenly stopped and held up a hand, causing Quinn to freeze in place. In the distance, a feral ghoul was picking its way through a pile of rubble. It sniffed the air, moved aside a few pieces of concrete, and then crawled off in the opposite direction of where they were standing. Danse waited until it was out of sight and then began moving again. Quinn looked at the map on her HUD, frowning.

“Danse,” she said in a low voice, “can’t we skip the resupply altogether and just head north? Diamond City is a massive detour to make.”

Danse shook his head. “Negative. We are dangerously low on medical supplies. Another injury without proper kit could mean the death of one of us, or both. I won’t have another Worwick on my hands.”

“Worwick?”

“He’s a- he _was_ a knight under my command. He succumbed to his injuries despite our best efforts. If we had had better medical supplies at hand, perhaps things may have been different. But as it stands…” He sighed. “Now is not the time to discuss this. We head south into Boston with the intention to resupply at Diamond City. After that, we can reassess the situation and move on from there. Agreed?”

Quinn nodded. “Agreed.”

“Excellent. Then let’s move out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to synthbutts (oolala) on tumblr for their invaluable beta services!
> 
> And thank you for the reviews and kudos, everyone! It makes my day to see people are enjoying this story. :)


	10. No Man's Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor spoiler alert: If you haven't visited the Swan Pond in Boston Commons, I suggest you do so before reading this chapter. This chapter contains no plot specific spoilers, however.

_The water was coming in too fast. The smell of it was disgusting; a fetid, rotting stench that saturated him until he wanted to vomit. The foul liquid was rising, almost touching his skin, and Danse struggled as he tried to free himself from his prison. There was a loud crack as the metal buckled, the glass shattered, and water flooded in, giving him seconds to take a quick breath before he was engulfed. Danse forced open his eyes, greeted with swirling silt that stung until he closed them again._

_The pressure was increasing, pushing him further down into the mud, distant roars and gunfire mere background noise to his mounting panic. The cool collective approach of a leader was slipping between his fingers as his lungs screamed for air, begging him to open his mouth, demanding that he breathe. Dizziness was sweeping over him as the urge grew, clawing at his chest, tearing through his ribs. A sudden movement jolted his head, and what little breath he had was knocked free from his lips as he swallowed a large amount of the sickening water. It took every inch of control Danse had to stop himself from inhaling. He had nothing left, but he had to stay in control. He had to hang on._

_The fight lasted for a few more seconds before instinct won. Danse’s mouth opened of its own accord, his lungs preparing to breathe their last._

* * *

“Do you ever get that sudden feeling of impending doom?”

“...what?” Danse stopped and stared at Quinn; she couldn’t see his face behind his helmet, but she could feel the confusion rolling off him.

They had been walking mostly in silence as they made their way along the riverbank adjacent to Boston Ruins, which meant Quinn’s mind had been given the opportunity to wander. She gave a little shrug. “Well, look at it from where I’m standing: I spent my entire life in the relative safety of the pre-war world, where I could go to the Super Duper Mart for a pack of Sugar Bombs without ending up impaled and strung up as a raider home decoration. The Commonwealth is just a constant battle, and sometimes I wonder whether I’m actually going to survive the day.” Quinn stopped and looked out over the river, nodding to the distant gunfire and explosions deep within the ruins. “But you’ve always been a part of the Commonwealth. So tell me, does the feeling that any day could be my last ever go away?”

Danse didn’t reply straight away. He seemed to be having some sort of internal battle from the way he was rocking on his heels. Eventually, he said, “It was that easy to obtain Sugar Bombs in your time?”

“I...that’s not the…” Quinn spluttered, flabbergasted. “Why do you…oh, you _ass.”_ She had heard him snickering from behind his helmet.

“I thought it was time you were on the receiving end of a strange question.” He strolled off, a cocky bounce in his step. “But to answer yours, the feeling of dancing with death is ever-present. If it isn’t, you’re letting yourself get soft.”

“But doesn’t that get tiresome after a while?” Quinn asked, catching up with him.

“Not at all. It keeps me on my toes.”

A fire hydrant flew over their heads, crashing into the side of a nearby building with a mighty bang. Glass panels shook loose and rained down on their heads, shattering against their armour and the road at their feet. There was a loud creaking noise as a billboard on the roof swayed dangerously before the rusted supports snapped, sending it plummeting to the ground. They dived out of the way, Quinn falling back and narrowly missing a lamppost, and Danse landing into a collection of trash cans. He emerged, grumbling, as Quinn got to her feet and swore, ducking around the corner. A second later, Danse joined her, squinting down the street.

In the distance, two huge behemoths lumbered into view, apparently having some sort of disagreement -- if a disagreement meant beating the shit out of each other with makeshift clubs. One of them had a fire hydrant on the end of theirs, while the other was simply using a metal pole as its weapon. Quinn glanced at the recently relocated billboard, strongly suspecting that, at one point, the former flying fire hydrant now lying dented on the sidewalk had once been part of a larger weapon. Not that the behemoth seemed to mind; it was doing spectacularly well with just the pole.

“Still on your toes?” Quinn murmured. Danse sighed, slinking away from the battle. She trailed after him; it was clear that following the riverbank was now out of the question.

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men,” he muttered, checking over his rifle as they crept further down the road, the roars of the mutants growing fainter.

Quinn momentarily forgot that the super mutant equivalent of a domestic was happening a mere thirty feet away from her, and gawped at him. "You know Steinbeck?"

"Yes," Danse replied without looking at her. "But it was Burns' first."

"Burns?"

"Robert Burns. He wrote the original poem." Danse glanced back at the fighting mutants. “Do we really need to have this conversation now?"

"No, I just didn't expect..."

Danse waved for her to be quiet, edging forward towards a small bridge that led over the river. Over the water lay a raider compound, high scrap walls emblazoned with colourful warnings and crude accompanying diagrams. It seemed the raiders had a real artist in their ranks. Quinn chuckled to herself just as Danse aimed his weapon and fired; the head of the nearby sentry snapped back, their body following in a sharp arc as they toppled off the barricade.

The hive erupted in a flurry of furious activity, raiders swarming out from every nook and crevice, a dozen barrels pointed at them. With almost lazy indifference, Danse primed a grenade and tossed it. It tumbled gracefully through the air, dropping in the centre of the largest cluster of enemies. The explosion sent the raiders flying; Quinn shot a nervous look at the warring behemoths behind them, but they paid no notice to Danse’s casual destruction.

The paladin moved forward as panic rippled through the ranks, firing perfect headshots with ease. It took Quinn a few seconds to remember that she was supposed to be helping; she raised her combat rifle and took aim, firing at a much faster, more reckless pace than the paladin. The  bullets went wild, some hitting their marks, others razing down raiders several feet away from her actual targets.

“Short, controlled bursts,” Danse yelled, “and keep obs on those behemoths!”

“Obs?” Quinn bellowed back over the gunfire.

“Observation!”

“Well why didn’t you just say that?!” A bullet pinged off Quinn’s helmet and she swore loudly, adjusting her fire as directed. To her surprise, the back of the raider’s head blasted out in a gory pattern; she’d never hit someone between the eyes at such a distance before. “Yes!”

A roar in the distance cut short Quinn’s elation. The fire hydrant-less behemoth had pulverised the other, and now held its pipe aloft as it turned its ugly, boulder-shaped head towards them. It considered them for a moment and then lumbered towards them, stooping down every few steps or so to scoop up debris and hurl it at them.

“Time to go.” Danse dodged a piece of rubble, which soared past and smashed through the raiders’ barricade. The two of them barrelled through, barging raiders out of the way, the mutant at their heels. Ignoring the terrified screams of their assailants, they sprinted through the shanty town, kicking down walls to create a new exit. The behemoth began wreaking havoc on the raiders as the pair ducked into a side street, panting, before creeping deeper into the city. The behemoth, apparently preferring its new playthings, did not follow.

“So, new plan then?” Quinn said eventually as they reached a quiet section of the ruins. “Goodneighbor and then west and north to the bridge near Diamond City?”

“We don’t need to go to Good-” Danse began, but Quinn cut him off.

“Yes, we do. What was it you said earlier?” Quinn lowered her voice and imitated the paladin, “ _We’re dangerously low on medical supplies._ ” She cleared her throat and grinned at him, even though she knew he wouldn’t be able to see it behind her helmet. “Goodneighbor has what we need, and if we’re going _through_ the ruins, then we have to stock up as soon as possible.”

 _“I don’t sound like that,”_ Danse muttered under his breath, but he nodded. “Fine. But I want a secondary supply run at Diamond City. I don’t trust them not to slip us subpar equipment.”

“I know the mayor; helped him out some. With any luck, everyone else will recognise that and at least try to cut us a fair deal.”

“I think you’re placing far too much faith in these kinds of people.” Danse’s tone was clear, riddled with mistrust and resignation, but Quinn didn’t care.

“Noted.” She nodded her head in the direction of the main street, and the two of them set off, picking their way through the rubble. The difference from her memory was striking; gone were the clean streets, the road buzzing with cars while pedestrians tried their luck in crossing to the other side, traffic lights blaring out their commanding colours.

Piles of debris now choked the streets, forming rolling hills and valleys of scrap. The twisted, rusted remains of cars poked from the ground like sunkern tombstones. The cracked tarmac was barely visible under all the crap; Quinn nudged aside an old hubcap with her foot, her nose wrinkling with distaste as the distress grew. It was scenes like this, where the backdrop of her old life looked so alien to her it was near unrecognisable, that threatened the gravity of her situation to consume her. It was easy enough to block it all out when she was in unfamiliar territory, or when she concentrated on Shaun -- but in the long, lonely walks through the graveyards of her memories, she was at the mercy of the past.

_Did my dad die alone?_

“So, Danse,” Quinn said, fighting back her anxiety, “Robert Burns: how do you know about him? Because I certainly didn’t; I didn’t think the wasteland had much left in the way of literature.”

If Danse noticed the unusually high pitch to her voice, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he said, ”It doesn’t. I have the Brotherhood to thank for my education.”

“They taught you to read and write?”

“No, they…” Danse paused. “I don’t remember how I learnt to read and write. It’s just a skill I’ve always had, right from when I was a child. My parents -- or someone -- must have taught me, but I can never recall who or when.”

“Do you remember your parents at all?”

“No.” There was an awkward silence, which Danse quickly filled. “But the Brotherhood tries to teach all its soldiers basic reading and writing; it’s no good having someone on the field who can’t identify useful technology due to illiteracy. Only those who become proficient at it can move up in the ranks; every team leader and officer is well-educated.”

Quinn wondered if the Brotherhood’s idea of ‘well-educated’ came close to the pre-war standard; judging by Danse’s own knowledge, there was a possibility that was the case. “You like books then?”

Danse shrugged. “They pass the time. I read more during training and my early days as a knight. Once I became Paladin, my duties became my priority...but I confess, sometimes I miss it.”

“I should take you to Boston library sometime. I’m sure we can…” Quinn’s voice trailed off, the feeling of disorientation crashing into her. The last time she had been this way, it had been dark, the night hiding the echoes. Now, in the light of day, the sun streaming through the skeletal skyscrapers, highlighting the destruction, Quinn saw. The left fork led to Goodneighbor; the right, towards an old, precious memory. Lowering her weapon, she wandered off as if in a dream.

“Soldier?” Danse asked. His voice seemed distant to her, unimportant. She ignored him and carried on, almost strolling down the street.

_“Where are we going?” Quinn asked Nate, slipping her fingers through his._

_“Wait and see,” he replied, giving her hand a little squeeze._

She could almost see it now, the ghosts of cars and people bustling past them in the crowded street, Nate leading her by one hand, his height allowing him to push the chaos aside with ease. The rumble of cars was now replaced with far-off gunfire, the smell of food vendors and city life now drowned by the stench of damp and decay. The street opened into a town square, dead trees lining barren flowerbeds and warped railings. Quinn walked through, past rusted little lampposts dotted on old stone walls, past the beautiful water fountain, now marred with scorch marks and bullet holes, and headed towards the swan pond.

The water, which had once been so clear you could see the chipped, white enamel at the bottom of the pond, was now a thick, murky black. At the back, near the old boathouse, Quinn could see one of the intact boats, red paint peeling as the wood beneath it rotted. Not far from it lay the other, its swan missing, the wood almost completely falling apart. In the centre of the pond lay the missing swan, choked and tangled by what looked like thick, slimy weeds and rubbish. It didn’t deserve to lie there, slowly sinking into the polluted water. Better to free it and reunite it with the other. Behind her, she heard the thumps of Danse as he caught up to her, a question of confusion on his lips.

Quinn stepped into the water.

The swan erupted out from the depths, vile liquid pouring down from its cracked and butchered body, gaping wounds where its wings had once been. It turned a beady eye to Quinn, and she knew it was her it wanted; the old world had come to claim her back.

“Quinn!” Danse bellowed, opening fire at the monstrosity that towered over them. It raised a grey, meaty fist, clutching what looked like an anchor in its hand, and swung it down at Quinn. She snapped back to her senses at the last second, dodging out of the way, stumbling as the weapon slammed down into the ground where she had been standing moments earlier.

“SWAAAAAAN!” the behemoth screamed, throwing its head back and raising its arms into the air. Aside from the anchor, the creature had an entire boat on its arm as a shield. The plastic swan strapped to its shoulder glared down at them, as if choosing the next target. Quinn scooted back, the water pushing against her, and saw Danse behind the mutant, circling around for a flanking attack. The mutant’s dark, glittering eyes settled on her, and Quinn had the distinct impression that they held more malice and intelligence than the behemoths from earlier. Its thick lips spread in a broken, nasty smile as it took a slight step towards her, and then whirled around with a deafening roar; the anchor hit Danse square in the chest, sending him flying. He landed face down, but before he could get up, the behemoth planted a large foot onto his upper back and head, crushing him down into the water.

Even from where she was standing, Quinn heard the loud crack of metal buckling, and saw Danse’s arms and legs begin to flail in uncontrollable panic. She had minutes to act. The behemoth stayed where it was, anchor raised, its foot firm on Danse, daring her to come closer.

Nate flickered briefly through her mind, clutching onto Shaun as a bullet silenced him forever, while Quinn beat her fists helplessly against frosted glass.

_No! God, no! Don’t let me lose him too! I can’t go through this again!_

“Let him go!” Quinn shrieked. She darted forward, dodging the fall of the anchor as it rushed past her and crashed into the pond, spraying water as the enamel bottom audibly cracked. In that second, its face was inches from hers, and rage directed her to her target. With a yell, she thrust her gun upwards; the barrel went straight into its eye with a sickening squelch.

The roars turned to howls as the behemoth recoiled, staggering away. Blood was running down its face, and it swung blindly with the anchor, before tripping on the edge of the pond and landing on one of the boats with a bang that shook the ground. Quinn paid little attention; she was sprinting to Danse’s side. As soon as the behemoth had released him, Danse had pulled himself free of the water. It was pouring out of the cracks in the metal and glass of his helmet, but his hands scrabbled frantically for the catches, fumbling the mechanisms.

Quinn reached him and batted his hands away, pulling at the catches with all her might. There was a clunk, and Danse tore the helmet from his head, water crashing down his shoulders like a waterfall. The gasp he made hurt Quinn’s chest; he seemed to be retching, suffocating on the air he was trying to breathe. Then suddenly he was on all fours, vomiting up thick, black liquid, making horrible heaving and choking noises between each wave.

Quinn tore herself away from him; the behemoth was staggering to its feet, splintering the old boat as it went. She raised her gun, took a calming breath, and fired. The bullets cut into its head, and it roared in pain, stumbling back. But it wasn’t _dying_ . Could she drag Danse away in time? Could they outrun the thing, even if Danse was fit to move? Frustration exploded within her and she screamed, “Just fucking _die_ , you piece of shit!”

“Grenades!” Danse rasped. He was getting to his feet, grenade in hand, about to pull the pin. “Grenades!”

 _Oh shit, I forgot about them_.

Following the paladin’s lead, she reached for her fragmentation grenades and started throwing them like she was in a pre-war snowball fight. The explosions rocked the behemoth from side to side, drowning out its howls of pain, until eventually it collapsed and fell still. Quinn approached it, rifle at the ready, peering through the smoke and flames for any sign of movement.

“Careful,” Danse warned, his voice hoarse.

Quinn fired once into the mutant’s head. It didn’t move. “It’s dead.”

Danse didn’t answer, but Quinn heard the retching and gagging again, followed by deep, hacking coughs. She waited until he had quietened down before returning. Better not to make him feel uncomfortable while he threw his guts up. Danse pulled himself to his feet as she walked towards him, took a few steps in her direction, and then toppled back down into the water, coughing. With a noise of concern, Quinn ran over to him, pulling out a small bottle of purified water from the medical kit on her armour, and sat down in the pond next to him.

“Drink,” she said, as he tried to refuse it. “If anything, it’ll get the taste out of your mouth.”

Danse threw her a look of exasperation mixed with gratitude as he took the bottle and swigged deeply from it. Another coughing fit started, but thankfully he didn’t vomit again. Passing the water back to Quinn, Danse picked up his helmet, his lip curled in disgust. It had been completely bent out of shape, the front face plate caved in, and cracks in the metal so deep Quinn could already see it was a lost cause. He glared at it for what seemed like an age, and then hurled it away with such fierceness, Quinn jumped. The helmet hit the dirt with a thud and rolled away into the bushes. Danse said nothing, staring down at the water, a deep scowl on his face.

Suddenly, he spoke. “Was this where you came with your husband?”

“Yes.” Quinn sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I just saw the street, remembered where it led, and I had to come here. I didn’t think. I could have-”

“It would have been a beautiful park once,” Danse said, looking around the area before settling his eyes on her. “But it seems the roles have been reversed.” He smiled.

Quinn’s chest felt tight again, but at the same time, relief coursed through her. He wasn’t angry at her stupidity. She looked down at them both sat in the water, the bottle in her hand, and chuckled. “Come on. We need to get you to Goodneighbor to be checked over.” She got to her feet and helped Danse to his.

“I’m fine,” he protested, but Quinn shook her head as she fished around for his weapon.

“Even if you didn’t inhale that stuff, you certainly swallowed some of it. We’re going to Goodneighbor and you are going to see a doctor.” Quinn straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “And where the fuck is your gun?”

Danse glanced around at the black water and sighed. “It would take too long to find it, and with the noise we’ve made, I doubt we’re going to be alone here for much longer. I’m sure we can locate something in Goodneighbor.”

“Excellent idea, paladin.” Quinn shot him her most dazzling smile. “You’re learning.”

* * *

“So, what do two tin cans want with my town, hmm?”

The rough voice of John Hancock drifted through the chemical haze that filled the room, its owner sat on an old, stained sofa, black-booted feet propped up on the coffee table. In one hand there was a jet inhaler; in the other, a knife. Hancock twirled the blade between his fingers while he wore a lazy smile, but his eyes were hard and sharp, never leaving the Brotherhood soldiers. He stopped twirling the knife as Quinn removed her helmet, eyes widening.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, lifting his feet off the table and back onto the floor as he sat up straight, “I leave you alone for five minutes and you join the Brotherhood of Bigots?”

Quinn gave a half-hearted shrug. “I think they have what it takes to do some good for the Commonwealth.”

“Sure, but at what cost?” Hancock said, shooting Danse a withering look. Quinn prayed the paladin would keep his mouth shut, and mercifully, he did. Hancock went on, “Last I heard, the Brotherhood is more than happy to step on the little guy to get what they want. Killed any ghouls lately?”

“Hancock-”

“Saved them, actually,” Danse said. His tone was neutral, but his voice sounded like sandpaper.

“Well _lucky us,_ we got the Brotherhood on a generous day. By saving them, did you just mean you didn’t shoot them on sight?” Hancock locked his fingers together over his chest and put his boots back on the table. “Or did you ‘save’ them from becoming ferals?”

There was a long, awkward silence; Quinn waited with bated breath for Danse to make some sort of comment, but the paladin held his tongue. Maybe he did know when to keep quiet after all.

Hancock tilted his head to the side, and then looked from Danse to Quinn. “He doesn’t say much, does he?”

Quinn glanced at him and was alarmed to see Danse had gone a pale, almost grey colour. “Look,” she said, turning back to Hancock. “You know the Swan Pond? The place where no one ever comes back from?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, we came back from it.”

“Oh.” Hancock’s eyes widened. _“Oh.”_

“I want to take him to see Doctor Amari to check everything’s fine. Once that’s sorted, I’m all yours and we can have a good, long catch-up.”

Hancock considered Danse for a moment and then lit a cigarette, puffing on it so that thin tendrils of smoke curled slowly around his hat. “Go on,” he said with a nod. “Make sure he’s alright.”

* * *

“The Memory Den?” Danse glanced around as he limped inside, features tinged pink by the lighting and decor. “I thought you were taking me to a doctor.”

“I am. She’s in the back room,” Quinn said. She gave the Memory Den’s blonde, sultry hostess a little wave as they stomped up to her. “Hi, Irma.”

“Evening, honey.” Irma’s eyes flicked up and down Danse, a coy smile on her lips. “Who’s your friend?”

“My boss,” Quinn replied abruptly with a frown.

“Your boss? Interesting.” Irma stretched out on the lounger like a cat, fixing her gaze firmly on Danse. “I imagine this isn’t a social call from the look of your...boss. So head on through. Amari will sort you out.”

“Thanks.” The two of them walked past, Danse throwing a small glance back at Irma as they went; the hostess winked at him. Quinn rapped on the back of Danse’s armour with her knuckles. “Come on, _paladin_. Eyes up front.”

Danse flushed and looked ahead again, walking quickly into the next room. Quinn could feel annoyance in the pit of her stomach, which only increased as she heard Irma muffling a laugh from behind her.

 _What’s gotten into you?_ she thought to herself. _Let them flirt. None of your business._ But her face still felt hot and her temper thin as Amari came over to greet them. Quinn explained what happened, noticing the colour drain out of Amari’s face as she looked at Danse.

“Is everything alright?” Quinn asked. “You look a little…” _Scared? Worried? Anxious?_ “...shocked.”

Amari shook her head. “I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting anyone to come back from the Swan Pond. It’s a first.” She went to her cupboards and began rooting through. “Step out of that armour for me, please, paladin. I need to run a few test to make sure there’s no fluid trapped in your lungs.”

“Am I alright to leave him with you for a while, doctor?” Quinn asked as Danse complied with Amari’s request. “Hancock wants a word with me.”

“Of course,” Amari turned to face her, holding a long, nasty looking needle. She caught the look on Danse’s face and smiled. “Don’t worry. This is just in case of fluid, but hopefully we won’t have to use it.” Amari glanced back to Quinn. “If the mayor wants you, then you’re better off speaking to him as soon as possible. I imagine a Brotherhood presence in Goodneighbor will have him on edge. I’ll be done here in about half an hour or so.”

* * *

“Alright, spill it, Quinn. Why are you really working with the Brotherhood?” Hancock was splayed out on the sofa, the empty jet inhaler on his lap. He gave her a lopsided grin as she climbed out of her power armour and dropped in the chair opposite him, before continuing. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“I want my son back,” Quinn said, putting her own feet on the coffee table and accepting the beer one of Hancock’s men offered her. “You knew that from the moment you met me. I thought they could help me. It turns out they can’t -- not as quickly as I need, anyway.”

“Alright, so the kid angle. I get that. But why your friend? Why is he with you?”

“He...he offered to help me, and I thought I could use it. He persuaded Elder Maxson to let me go off and do my own thing, while covering for me at the same time. He’s been invaluable so far, he-”

Hancock gave a low laugh, which turned into a cough as he produced some more jet from his pocket. He offered it to Quinn, who declined. With a shrug, Hancock fired up the chem and inhaled, eyelids drooping as it hit him. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Well, yes. He’s been a good friend.” Quinn’s heart rate quickened.

Hancock rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that. You know what I mean. You _like_ him, don’t you?” The ghoul laughed to himself again. “Poor Magnolia...she’ll be heartbroken.”

“Don’t.” Quinn’s tone was sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. Hancock glanced up at her, wearing a sheepish expression.

“Too far?” he asked.

Quinn nodded. “Too far.”

“Sorry.” Hancock took another puff and caught her eye. “Really, I am.”

“It’s...it’s fine.” Quinn laid back against her chair and sipped her beer. “I was in a bad place that night. Grieving. Confused. Far too drunk for my own good. Magnolia...I shouldn’t have done it. Nate would despise me for it.”

“All you did was hit on the girl.” He shook his head. “No need to beat yourself up about it, and to be honest, I think she was hankering for more before you bottled it.” When Quinn didn’t reply, he looked over at her. “You were in a vulnerable place. We’ve all done it.” Hancock stared at his jet with a small smile. “Some more than others.”

There was a comfortable silence while each indulged in their selected vice. Eventually, Hancock spoke. “When I first realised it was you, I was a little bit pissed. I thought you’d gone full ghoul-hater. But then I remembered, even though we only travelled together a short while, we did a lot of good. Helped a lot of people. I miss it. And if anyone could be a good influence on those Brotherhood sons-of-bitches, it’s you.”

Quinn blinked, taken aback by this, and then smiled. “An official commendation from the mayor? I’ll remember that one, Hancock.” With a nod, she raised the last of her beer to him. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to synthbutts (oolala) for general beta work, and mayorjohnhardcock (OOLALA) for help with characterising Hancock. I've never written Hancock before, and I don't know him as well as the other companions. I hope I did a good job on him. These two were super helpful to me, and you can find them both on tumblr.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone for your reviews and general love! You make my day with it. :)


	11. Promises

“One room for two, please,” Quinn said, pressing down the caps on the desk. “Twin beds, if possible.”

Clair Hutchins raised an eyebrow as she looked from Quinn to Danse and back again. “Magnolia will be disappointed.” She put down a set of keys and scooped up the caps into her bony hand.

“Christ, has everyone heard about that?” Quinn muttered, snatching up the keys and stomping away. Danse followed her, frowning.

“What does she mean, ‘Magnolia will be disappointed’?” Danse asked. There was an edge to his tone that Quinn didn’t like.

“Why do you want to know, paladin?” she said icily. Magnolia was not a topic she cared to discuss.

There was a pause. “Forget I said anything.”

The rest of the trip was taken in silence, only broken by the noise of the key as Quinn unlocked the door and stepped inside, Danse at her heels. She moved to the corner of the room, climbed out of her power armour, and stretched, before leaning against it. “About Magnolia…”

“If you don’t want to talk about it-” Danse said, standing near the window that overlooked Goodneighbor.

“I think I should,” she interrupted, staring at the floor. “I’d rather my senior officer didn’t get the wrong impression about me.”

“What you do in your spare time is no concern of mine, Knight.”

“So why did you ask?” Quinn folded her arms and waited for an answer, but none was given. She pulled a face and said, “Exactly. You want to know, and I don’t want you making assumptions.” Quinn took a deep breath, still not looking at him. “But like most of my embarrassing stories, I was horrendously drunk at the time…”

* * *

“Whitechapel! Another drink, my good man!” Quinn slumped forward on the bar, propping herself up with one elbow, her free hand spinning the dirty shot glass in front of her. It was packed in the Third Rail, but Quinn had a talent of getting herself a permanent position at the front of the bar. She hummed along with the singer in the corner, admiring the way her red dress clung to her curves.

Whitechapel Charlie, a Mr Handy robot with a bowler hat perched jauntily on his body, floated over, a bottle of whiskey at hand. “Aint’cha ever heard of the word _please_?” he said in his gravelly, cockney-accented voice, but he poured her another shot all the same. Quinn tossed him a few caps with a grin and knocked back the drink, shivering with delight at the burn.

“Who’s the singer?” she asked as she slid her shot glass forward again.

“That is Magnolia,” Whitechapel Charlie replied, refilling it. “The flower of the Third Rail. Anything you want to know about her other than that is her business.”

“Magnolia, hmm?” Quinn turned to watch the singer fully now, still humming to the music. It was a slow number, smooth and sexy, Magnolia’s voice dripping with honey and spice. The words seemed to flow, washing over her, whisking Quinn away from her problems. For the first time since she had stepped out of the vault, Nate and Shaun left her mind.

Nick sidled up to her, taking one look at her face and-

* * *

“Nick?” Danse said, his brow furrowing. “Who’s Nick?”

“He’s a friend of mine,” Quinn said quickly, deciding to gloss over the minor detail that, as Nick was a synth, Danse would see him as the bringer of the apocalypse. “Real nice guy. Assisted me in tracking down the man who stole my son and murdered my husband, and helped me put a bullet in his head.”

“He sounds…” Danse fumbled for the word, “...thorough.”

“Damn straight he is,” Quinn said proudly.

* * *

Nick sidled up to her, taking one look at her face and frowning. “Quinn, haven’t you had enough to drink?”

“Probably,” Quinn replied, a crooked grin on her face, “but I’m here to forget, Valentine, and nothing works better than whiskey.”

“Look, kid,” Nick said, pulling up a bar stool and sitting down next to her, “you’ve gone through a lot in a short space of time. With Nate and Shaun and...you’ve gone through a _lot._ I understand why you’re drinking, I really do; I was - I mean, Nick, the real Nick - was the same after Jen. But if you’re not careful, you might end up doing something you regret.” He glanced up at Magnolia and muttered under his breath, “Or someone…”

Quinn rested her hands onto her lap, staring at the empty shot glass cupped between them. “I know,” she mumbled. “I know. But I don’t want to think right now. I just want to listen,” she lifted the glass and tipped the last few drops of whiskey into her mouth, “to drink, and to admire.” Quinn nodded at Magnolia.

Nick sighed and slipped off his stool, stepping back. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it. Just...try not to get carried away.”

“Oi, Valentine,” Whitechapel Charlie said, pouring whiskey into the shot glass that Quinn was waving in front of him, “you not buyin’, then?”

“Charlie, the day that swill of yours touches my lips is the day you stop watering it down.” Nick tipped his hat to Quinn and left without another word.

“Prick,” Whitechapel Charlie grumbled, refilling Quinn’s glass. He bobbed on the spot as she drank it down like purified water, and then moved away when she held out her glass again. “Look, normally I don’t refuse a payin’ customer, but Valentine’s right; you’ve had enough, mate.”

“Why do you care?” Quinn snapped, sipping out the last few, precious drops of amber liquid from the bottom of the glass. “Caps are caps.”

“Because pissheads like you get nasty, and the last thing I need is another bar fight this week, especially while Magnolia’s here. When you sober up, you can have another one.” The robot floated away to the other customers before Quinn could cuss him out.

“Fuckin’ asshole.” Quinn set her glass down and quietly sang along to the music, ignoring the glares and complaints of other patrons trying to reach past her to the bar. This was her spot; they’d have to shoot her and drag her away before she’d move an inch.

Magnolia’s song ended, but Quinn continued to hum to herself, her head swimming. She felt composed, but also disconnected, as if she wasn’t entirely in control of herself. The singer sauntered past, the crowd parting like she had just said ‘open, sesame’, and climbed into the bar stool Nick had recently vacated. Quinn glanced over to her and beamed.

“Excuse me, miss?” she said, surprised at the lack of slur in her voice. She’d drunk enough whiskey to poison a small elephant.

Magnolia looked at her, wearing an entertainer’s smile: polite, but wary. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you didn’t like the song.”

Quinn shook her head. “I loved the song. It was perfect.”

“Oh, thank you. A girl tries her best!” Magnolia chuckled, but Quinn could see she was still guarded, sizing her up. But then Magnolia tilted her head to one side, her expression deepening. Quinn waited.

Magnolia leaned forward, her voice low and husky. “Now there’s something special about you, isn’t there? Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She paused. “Ahh, that's it, you have that ‘I'm the smartest one here and I know it’ posture. There's something so irresistible about intelligence. Don't you think?”

Quinn flashed her a mischievous grin. “You tell me.”

“So what brings a woman like you to my part of town?”

“Music,” Quinn said without hesitation, “I could never resist a good song. Plus the whiskey isn’t half bad either.”

“A woman after my own heart then.” The response was simple, but there was true delight in Magnolia’s tone. Perhaps she sensed the honesty in Quinn’s answer. “So, it’s my turn to answer questions, right? What can I do for you?”

Quinn stared at her, imagining lying in a bed with someone to hold. Someone warm and real and _there._ She took the plunge. “I was wondering if we could get to know each other better.”

“Oh really?” Magnolia looked pleasantly surprised. “Go on…”

“You. Me. An evening walk under the street lights…”

“And then what?” purred Magnolia.

* * *

“And then what?” asked Danse, eyes wide. It might have been the fault of the lighting in the room, but Quinn could have sworn there was a dull flush creeping up his cheeks; she could certainly feel the heat radiating off her own.

“And then…” Quinn covered her face with her hand.

* * *

_her helpless hands beat on the frosted glass, Nate’s accusing eyes staring at her from his cryo pod. He lies crumpled in place, blood frozen around his wound, eyes staring staring staring..._

Quinn stood up so quickly, the stool she had been sat on skidded across the floor. She staggered back into another customer, who pushed her forward hard; she nearly bowled Magnolia over. The ring at her neck was heavy with guilt, dragging her to the floor, but somehow Quinn found the strength to stay on her feet. She caught the singer’s eye and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I just...I…”

Nearly gasping for breath now, she shoved the other drinkers out of the way and stumbled off towards the entrance, leaving Magnolia alone at the bar. The alcohol was finally hitting her, but the rising panic and shame was far worse than the world spinning beyond her grasp. What the hell was she trying to do? Nate was lying dead in some vault, his ring burning around her neck, and she had almost-

As Quinn reached the fresh air outside, her feet became tangled beneath her, and she went sprawling. She didn’t care; she lay in the street and bawled into the filth that surrounded her. A pair of strong, firm hands grasped at her arms, pulling her up with fluid ease and guiding her along the road.

“Come on, kid,” said the voice of Nick Valentine. “Let’s get you to bed.”

* * *

Quinn’s cheeks were burning, her hand still covering her face. So long as she stayed away from the Third Rail, she could avoid Magnolia - but everyone else...they all knew. They all _saw_. It didn’t matter how understanding Nick had tried to be about it, how much Hancock tried to brush it away, it had happened. Quinn would never live it down. Her hand reached for the string at her neck of its own accord, tugging out the ring and turning it over in her fingers.

“What’s that?” Danse asked her.

Quinn looked down, realising what she’d done, and clamped her hand over the ring to conceal it, putting it back under her clothes. “Nothing,” she said hurriedly. She quickly changed the subject back. Humiliation was better than discussing _that._ “But I hope you understand now that it’s not...Magnolia wasn’t…”

“I can see why you didn’t want to talk about it,” Danse said quietly, moving towards her and closing the distance. “And I know that some alcohol-fuelled memories are...best left forgotten. Let’s talk about something else.” He glanced around the room and raised an eyebrow. “Like why you booked a shared room, soldier?”

He was teasing her and she knew it, but her face took on a fresh blush. Quinn straightened up, hands on hips, attempting her best ‘don’t-question-me-I’m-200-years-your-senior’ look, her stern gaze faltering as Danse grinned at her. She dropped her arms and shrugged. “You were apprehensive about being here, and as you took a fair beating earlier, I thought you might be on edge.” Quinn folded her arms, leaning back on her power armour again. “You are going to get a decent night’s sleep tonight, and I am going to stay on watch to keep you at ease.”

The colour drained from Danse’s face as his smiled faded. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe, but it’s gonna’ happen anyway.” She pointed to the bed. “You’ve barely had a few hours sleep since we left the Prydwen. It’s not healthy for you, and I don’t want to worr-” Quinn coughed. “I don’t want to be constantly watching your ass, making sure you’re not about to doze off in the middle of a fight.”

Danse’s eyes flicked to the bed and back to her, the discomfort growing in his expression as he remained rooted on the spot. It was time for a new tack.

“Look,” Quinn said, righting herself again and walking towards him, “I know last time you went to sleep it was...disturbed. I don’t know what’s on your mind; that’s your business. But I know Nate had something similar when he came home from the war, and it was difficult for him to sleep. So I won’t ever judge you for your demons, Danse. Just tell me what you need from me to help. If I see you tossing and turning, do you want me to wake you up, or leave you be?”

Danse considered this. “Leave me be. I don’t want to risk hitting you,” he paused, “or nearly breaking my hand again.”

Quinn laughed and then motioned to the bed. “Get some rest, paladin. You’ve earned it.”

He gave a small nod, his features knotted together in a weary, worried expression as he stepped back and climbed out of his armour before making his way over the bed. Danse dropped heavily onto it, staring at the wall, and then spoke. “Would it be possible to speak...off the record for a moment?”

“Off the record?” What was this about? “That's not like you, Danse.”

“Which is why this is going to be difficult to say, so I'd appreciate it if you bear with me.” Danse stared blankly ahead for a moment longer, apparently composing himself. Then he turned to her, his face riddled with anxiety. “When you were first placed under my sponsorship, I had some serious reservations about it. Despite all that, this has turned out to be a rewarding experience...for both of us. At this point, honestly, I don't feel like there's anything else I could teach you about being a Brotherhood soldier that you don't already know. It's apparent from your attitude and your actions that you intend to keep those ideals close to your heart.”

Quinn frowned. He had said this to her this before and with much less unease attached to it. There was something else to this. “You're beating around the bush. Is there something you're trying to tell me?”

“Is it that obvious?” Danse rubbed the back of his neck, eyes now firmly at the floor. “I've...never been very good at these things. Let me start at the beginning. I grew up alone in the Capital Wasteland. Spent most of my childhood picking through the ruins and selling scrap. When I was a bit older, and had a few caps to my name, I moved into Rivet City and opened a junk stand. While I was there, I met a guy named Cutler. We got along pretty well, watched each other's backs, and kept each other out of trouble. When the Brotherhood came through on a recruiting run, we felt like it was the best way out of our nowhere lives, so we joined up.”

“Rivet City?” The way he had said it sounded odd, like it was common knowledge. Perhaps it was. “Hm. Must be post-war, because I've never heard of it.”

Danse nodded. “You're right. It was a settlement built inside the remains of a beached aircraft carrier. One of the safest places to live in the Capital Wasteland until the Brotherhood arrived. It was the perfect location for me to try my hand at being a merchant.”

“I'm glad you had greater ambitions than just selling junk,” Quinn said with a smile. She couldn’t help herself. The image of Danse stood behind a market stand in full Brotherhood armour had popped into her head, and she couldn’t get rid of it. Thankfully, Danse hadn’t noticed her smirk.

“Once I saw what the Brotherhood had to offer, there was no comparison.” He looked up, and Quinn quickly wiped away her smile. He continued, “Anyway, about a year after we were posted to the Prydwen, Cutler vanished on a scouting op. It took some convincing, but I was able to persuade my CO to let me assemble a squad and search for him. It took almost three weeks, but we tracked his team down to a Super Mutant hive. Those wretched abominations had slaughtered everyone but Cutler. He should have been so lucky. The mutant bastards used their FEV to change him into one of their own kind. He wasn't Cutler anymore. I had to...it was my duty to...put him down.”

The pain in his voice cut her deep, distress pouring out of him from the old wound. For the first time since she’d met him, Quinn didn’t know what to say. She made an attempt, regardless. “You did the right thing,” she said. Even to her own ears, the words sounded hollow and meaningless.

“It's what I was taught. I don't know if it was right.” Danse’s tone was sharp, a deep scowl flickering across his features. Quinn stared at him, comprehension dawning on her.

_It’s what I was taught. I don’t know if it was right._

The Slog, the ghouls, and Danse’s attitude crashed together at the front of her mind, screaming at her. Had Danse always thought this way, or was it something he had been conditioned to think?

Danse let out a long breath and shook his head. “Ever since Cutler died, I've seen other soldiers come and go. Some were brave, some were honest...hell, some were even downright heroic. But I'd never consider any of them to be a good friend, a friend like Cutler was...until now.” Finally, he caught her eye, his pale face breaking into a cautious smile. “It's a good feeling, but it frightens me all the same. Having a bond with someone then losing them...it changes you. I don't want to go through that again.”

_You’re wrong,_ Quinn thought. _It doesn’t just change you; it ruins you. It tears you apart at a level so deep you realise you never knew what hurt was._ But one look at Danse told her everything she needed to know - he had lost someone he had loved, even if it was a different kind of love to what she felt for Nate. Or maybe it had been the same. She would probably never know.

“It would never be that way with me...I care about you too much to let that happen,” Quinn said. She stopped. What had she just said? _What had she just said?_

Danse seemed to be thinking the same thing. He stared at her for a moment, eyes wide with surprise and mouth hanging open. He shut it, swallowed, and opened it again; an odd croak fell from his lips, but no coherent words. Danse cleared his throat, the old flush growing under his stubble, and tried again. “I...I didn't know you felt that strongly about our...well, about us. I'm sorry if I seem...confused. You've certainly given me something to think about.”

Quinn nodded, her throat tight, and turned back to her armour, struggling into it. The sooner she could hide her red face, the better. The armour swallowed her whole, granting a blessed barrier between her and Danse. When she faced him again, she felt stronger, untouchable.

Danse was looking at her, frowning, his hands fidgeting in his lap as a muscle in his jaw twitched. Eventually he said, “I just thought you deserved to know how I felt. If you feel that I've overstepped my bounds, I completely understand. Whatever the case may be, I appreciate the fact that you took the time to listen.”

“Not all, paladin. Hopefully I didn’t overstep my bounds either.” Her voice sounded much more confident than she felt. Danse didn’t reply to her. _Shit._ Deciding to take the nonchalant approach, Quinn went on, “Get some rest. I’m going to head into town and grab some supplies. That way, we can leave first thing in the morning.”

If Danse had an issue with her abandoning her watch before she’d even started it, he didn’t show it. If anything, he looked somewhat relieved.

* * *

“Ahh, cheer up, Quinn!” Hancock said, slapping her on the back of her power armour with a dull thud. His eyes bulged and he let out the noise of a mouse being trodden on, shaking his hand vigorously. “Fuckin’...”

Quinn chuckled, despite herself. She stomped alongside the mayor, helmet tucked under her arm, noting how the people threw him either a wary look or one of idolisation. He really had a good thing going here. Hancock gave her a roguish grin.

“There we go. Knew I could get a smile out of you.” He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and walked alongside her. “When we’re done here, how about we drop into the Third Rail? It’s been a while since I had a drink amongst the people.”

“No. I made enough of an idiot of myself on my last visit.”

“You’re still really sore about that, aren’t you? Honestly, no one cares; it happens about three times a week around here.”

“People keep bringing it up.”

“Do they?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Say the word and I’ll-”

“I appreciate it, but no,” Quinn interrupted. “I’m not one for special treatment. Let them talk; it’ll pass eventually.”

“Not one for special treatment? I find that hard to believe when you literally have the mayor of Goodneighbor as your personal shopping escort,” Hancock retorted, smirking as he lit a cigarette.

“Can’t a girl spend time with her favourite trouble-making ghoul while she indulges in a few purchases?” she said sweetly, though it was hard work to stop herself from laughing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hancock said, blowing smoke out from his nose cavity. “I love you too, you crazy bastard.”

It was a welcome break from reality, Quinn decided as she trailed around Goodneighbor with Hancock, piling ammunition and stimpaks into his arms. She bought him a few chems for good measure, slipping them into his already stuffed pockets -- _“Heh, I always welcome donations to my backup stash”_ \-- and together they staggered back to the hotel.

“Could I ask another favour of you, please?” she said, taking some of the burden off him.

“Another one? Hmm. You might have to buy me some more jet for that,” Hancock said, cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke. “What is it?”

“I need scrap for a project I’m building in Sanctuary Hills. Anything you can get me for the rest of my caps, delivered to Sanctuary as soon as possible.”

“How many caps we talkin’ here?” Quinn gave him the figure and he whistled. “You been drinking your way through the Commonwealth since I last saw you?”

“Something like that. So will you do it?”

“For you? Of course. So long as I get to join in on whatever fun you’re planning later…”

Quinn forced a laugh. “Would I ever deny you the chance to cause mayhem?”

“I’d be heartbroken if you did…”

* * *

It had been difficult carrying everything back into the room quietly, not least because her power armour clanked with every damn step. Hancock sniggered at the paladin curled up into a small ball on the bed, his arms covering his face again.

“Well, look at Sleepin’ Beauty…”

“Shh,” Quinn said, carefully putting her stash down next to the desk and then exiting out of the armour. Danse stirred on the bed, but didn’t wake. The sheets were thrown aside as if he had been struggling under them earlier. Creeping over, she lifted them up and fixed them gently back over Danse’s shoulders.

Hancock watched her with interest. “What _is_ it with you two? If I were in your shoes, I’d have made a move a long time ago.”

Quinn straightened up, scowling, and pulled the ring out from under her shirt, shaking it in his direction. “Because of this,” she hissed quietly. “Because of Nate. Because he’s lying in some fucking vault with a bullet in his body, cold and alone, and here I am, just…” she clutched at her hair, pulling on it, her eyes pricking with tears again.

“Hey…” Hancock moved over and before she could protest, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Quinn tried to push him away, but Hancock held on, until eventually she gave in and clutched at his jacket, crying silently into his shoulder. It only took a few minutes for her to calm down, but Hancock waited patiently for her to finish. When she pulled away, he held up the hem of his coat with one hand for her dry her eyes , the other hand offering a jet inhaler. Quinn laughed and declined, rubbing her tears away with her own sleeve.

“God, I feel so guilty, and I don’t know why.” Quinn walked over to the desk and sat on it, Hancock watching her with a beady eye. She shrugged. “I know you think I like him that way. I don’t. I _don’t._ I just...I don’t want to lose anyone else in my life. I want to appreciate the people I have left. Look after them.”

“Okay, so you have nothing but pure, wholesome thoughts for him,” Hancock said with a small shrug, a little smile on his face. “Nothing to feel ashamed about. Who cares what it looks like to anyone else? You keep doing you; fuck what anyone else thinks.”

Quinn sat down on the desk, picking up an old gun she had purchased that day, and smiled at Hancock. “Thanks…” she stared down at the gun and sighed.

“Want me to leave you alone for now?”

She gave a small nod.

“Alright.” Hancock swept his hat off and gave a little bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t leave without saying goodbye.” He gave a wink as he left, and to his credit, shut the door as quietly as possible.

* * *

_Cutler_

Danse awoke with a start, heart racing as Cutler’s fingers loosened from around his neck. His chest heaved as the vision faded, and he sat up, wiping the sweat from his brow with trembling hands. His head was throbbing with pain; in the back of his mind, Knight Captain Cade’s advice echoed, telling him it would be wise to remove himself from active duty. Danse had ignored him. This was nothing he couldn’t handle. And yet in the last few weeks, it hadn’t just been Cutler who visited him in his dreams. There were new faces, all familiar to him, members of his team he had let down. His decisions, his burden, and by _god_ the ghosts knew it.

Danse took several deep breaths -- _in through the nose, out through the mouth_ \-- and leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. A childish part of him was afraid to close his eyes, in case _they_ came back. Stupid. He tried to think of something else, but the only other thing that came to mind was what Quinn had said earlier, and his idiotic response.

_I didn’t know you felt so strongly about us._

About us? What us? Quinn hadn’t mentioned an ‘us.’ There was no ‘us.’ _Why had he brought up that ‘us’?_ All she had said was, “I care about you too much to let that happen.” What did that even mean? Certainly not an ‘us.’ But at the same time...no. She had meant it as friends, obviously. Which was right of her. Anything else would be against regulation, entirely inappropriate. Anything else would be taking advantage of his position as her supervisor and - _why was he even thinking about it like this?_

Well, at least he’d made a shoddy attempt to recover the situation and his professionalism. _“If I’ve overstepped my bounds...”_ But then again, that sounded like he had taken the conversation in a different direction than he intended.

_Why did he mention ‘us’?!_

Danse shook his head, feeling stupider by the second. At least the shakes were now under control. He looked forward again, paused, and then blinked.

At the foot of the bed, propped up in an old chair, was Quinn. Her combat rifle lay in her slackened hands, pointing vaguely towards the door. Her head was slumped forward, which gave Danse a jolt of panic, until he noticed her chest rising and falling gently. She was asleep. He watched her for a few moments, smiling. So much for her keeping watch. In any other situation, he would scold his team members for making such a thoughtless error; she _should_ have woken him up if she was getting too tired. But with dread still bubbling away in the pit of his stomach, he found he just didn’t _care_. He became immersed in Quinn’s state of peace, studying every line on her face, every mark on her clothes and skin. Her calm was infectious, soothing him like no drink ever had.

An idea came to mind. He stood up, picking up the greying bedsheets, and walked over to her. With a steady, careful hand, he inched her gun away from her and placed it on the bed, before draping the sheet over her and delicately tucking it around her body. Danse picked her gun back up and turned to put it on the desk, before spotting something that made his heart jump into his throat.

Surrounded by old parts and tools, lay a laser rifle. Although it was obviously second hand, the case had been buffed to a beautiful shine, and it had been upgraded several times over. Danse put down Quinn’s gun and picked up the rifle, inspecting it. Not only had it been modified with parts better than the ones he had used, but the workmanship was outstanding. Was this for him? She had said she would fix him up a new gun, and yet this looked too good to be for him. Maybe she had made it for herself and she was going to give him her old gun. Yes, that was it…

Danse went to set the gun back down, but caught the combat rifle he had put down in the process. It slipped off the surface and hit the floor with a loud thud; Quinn woke up with a snort.

“What?” she said, moving so violently she nearly tipped backwards out of her chair. Danse lunged and grabbed the front of her fatigues, yanking her forward so hard she fell into him. Danse quickly crouched down to catch her.

“Christ!” she exclaimed, clutching onto his arms. Quinn blinked a few times, coming to her senses, and looked down at who she was holding. “Oh, crap, I’m sorry.” A deep blush spread across her face as she stood up, dusting herself down. Then she spotted the laser rifle in his hand. The red in her cheeks intensified, but a smile played across her lips as well. “Oh, you found your rifle, did you?”

“My...my rifle?” Danse looked down at the gun in his hands and back to her.

_I care about you too much_

“Yes, _your_ rifle.” Her smile was shy now and she looked down at her feet. “I said I’d fix one up for you.”

“I...I didn’t think you’d actually…” Danse swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She was beaming at him, but he saw a twinkle of mischief. “And guess what else I got while I was out.”

“What?” He had the strange feeling it would either terrify him or confuse him. Maybe even both. Quinn began digging through a pile of ammunition and stimpaks with far more glee than any sane person would do. It was then he saw the pile of mini nukes pushed up against the desk. “Soldier, have you had me sleeping next to a _nuclear arsenal_ all this time?”

“Yup,” Quinn replied cheerfully, pulling out something large and heavy from her hoard of Goodneighbor spoils. With a grunt, she shifted the Fat Man onto her shoulder and grinned wickedly at the paladin.

All Danse could manage was, “...why?”

“Because,” Quinn said, practically bouncing on the spot, “there have been too many delays. Too much time wasted. And it’s about time I showed the Commonwealth not to _fuck with me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to synthbutts from tumblr for their beta help!
> 
> I’m back at work again, so fic updates are going to slow down a fair bit. Sorry! Anyways, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I hope it was as enjoyable for you to read! And thank you again for all your lovely feedback!


	12. Reckless

Hecks and Engine stood at the barricades of their den, peering out into the ruins; noises of the camp sounded down below as Belter laid into his latest scavenger. The whips and screams were a pleasant ambience as the morning sun gently rose into the sky, coating Boston with a fresh, orange light.

Hecks frowned, twisting his mouth from side to side, and then turned to his companion. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Engine looked at Hecks expectantly, the loose spike detail of his armour jingling together as he moved.

“You ever wonder why we’re here?”

Engine sighed, running a hand through his stubbly brown hair. He looked back out to the Commonwealth, contemplation etched in his gaunt, rough features. Then his eyes widened as an odd, whistling sound filled the air. He looked up. “Oh, son of a bi-”

The barricade exploded as the mini nuke made impact, flinging the two raiders into the air in a glorious inferno. Quinn whooped with delight, loaded up the Fat Man, and took aim. The kickback was enough to almost knock her over, even in power armour, and she _loved_ it. Somewhere behind her was Danse, yelling for her to slow down, hold back, _wait wait wait_.

No. Quinn had had enough. The rush of noise and fire was exhilarating. It filled her with a high like nothing she had experienced before, all the rage and frustration and grief pouring out of her and crashing down on her enemies like a tsunami. She charged into the fray, firing off mini nukes at random, drinking in the chaos with glee.

A pair of metal plated hands grabbed at the Fat Man; Quinn turned to give Danse a mouthful, only to find herself facing an extremely disgruntled raider, clad head to foot in what looked like scavenged power armour.

“End of the line, bitch,” the raider spat, wrenching the Fat Man free from her grasp like a parent taking a pair of scissors from a child. She hit Quinn across the head with the gun, dazing her, and ran a few paces back. The raider queen hauled the Fat Man into position and fixed the sights on Quinn. The was a yell, and Danse shoulder-barged the raider, the mini nuke flying off into a distant building as she and the gun went sprawling. Quinn leapt to her feet and sprinted for it, punching out another raider as he dove for the weapon; his jaw broke under her fist. Ignoring the nausea in the pit of her stomach, she scooped up the Fat Man and ran forward towards Danse, bringing it down on the raider’s exposed head. Again and again it fell, until with a final, gurgling moan, her head split.

Panting, Quinn let go of the Fat Man and dropped to her knees, chest heaving as she looked at the spilt brains and blood before her; the urge to vomit was rising. Danse dragged her up by her arms and spun her around, wearing a snarl she had never seen on his face before.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Clearing a path through these scumbags,” Quinn said, waving a hand vaguely to the destruction she had wrought. “It’s about time we made some damn progress.”

“This is...this...” he seemed momentarily lost for words, “...this is utter recklessness! Look what almost happened! You could have gotten us both killed!”

Quinn flinched at his anger breaking over her, but then shrugged and pulled away from him, stepping back. “I’m sorry. I got a little carried away.”

“Carried away?” Danse shook his head and scowled. “You have been acting increasingly erratic ever since we left the Prydwen. You’re throwing yourself into danger at every opportunity, get involved in seemingly random fights that belong to other people, take risky chances during battles, pushing yourself past your limits when you’re clearly injured, drinking to deal with your problems, wandering off in the middle of the Boston Ruins, and now _this._ ” Danse gave the empty Fat Man a swift kick, sending it tumbling towards her with a loud clatter. “What did you expect to happen, running straight into a group of enemies with a long range, explosive weapon? That was pure _stupidity_.”

Quinn flared up at once. “I didn’t see you complaining about any of this at the time! What, so now I’m taking charge of things, suddenly you have a problem? Besides, it all worked out, didn’t it?”

“It’s worked so far because sheer luck has carried you through,” Danse snapped back. “And I didn’t complain because I forgot my responsibility as a paladin; I didn’t add everything together. I wasn’t paying attention to the fact you’re a risk to everyone around you. You’re endangering yourself, you’re endangering me, and when we eventually return to the Prydwen, you can be _damn_ certain I won’t let you endanger anyone else until you’re evaluated by Knight-Captain Cade.”

She gave an ugly laugh. “As if I give a shit about the Brotherhood right now. Do what you want when we get back – _if_ I even go back with you. I just want to find my son, and I’m sick of waiting for it to happen.”

“If you aim to be a reckless parent, it might be better if you don’t find him at all.”

It was Quinn’s turn to kick the Fat Man; her foot hit it with the force of a tank, sending it soaring.

“How dare you!” she exploded, her fury bubbling over as she took off her helmet and flung it to the ground with a clang. “How dare you say that, suggest that I don’t...that I...” Her face was scarlet, coherent sentences beyond her. Danse leapt at the opportunity.

“I accept I’ve revoked my leadership to help you on this mission,” he said quickly, his voice firm but maddeningly calm, “but as your friend, I can’t just stand by and watch you self-destruct. I grew up alone in the wasteland, hiding in dumpsters for shelter, constantly close to starving, cold, scared...I don’t know what happened to my parents. Maybe they abandoned me. Maybe they’re dead. But what I do know is it wasn’t _right_.”

He paused, but Quinn still seemed past the point of speech, balling up her fists as if she was trying not to hit him. “You have a responsibility as a parent to stay alive for your son. Don’t let him grow up alone in the Commonwealth because you can’t keep yourself under control.”

The dam broke as Quinn saw red. “You think it knows what it feels like, don’t you?” she hissed, taking an abrupt step towards him, near blind with rage.  “‘ _Keep yourself under control, don’t take risks’_ ; you aren’t _capable_ of comprehending what I feel.” Her voice broke, but she ploughed on, wanting to cut him with her words, make him hurt as she hurt now. “I would watch Nate die a thousand times over and be thankful for it, if it meant I had Shaun back. This isn’t like Cutler. You know _nothing_.”

_“That’s enough,”_ Danse said, his voice a whip crack in the air. Quinn could feel the anger rolling off him, a gleam of hate in his eyes as he towered over her, visibly trembling. God, he was hurting, and for a moment, she relished it. _Let him hurt. Let him hate me. Let him go and leave me, then I can grieve and scream and cry in peace with no guilt or shame or..._ A prickle of sanity sparked in her chest, piercing the shell of madness and letting fear and horror trickle back into her being. _What am I doing?_

Danse shut his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them again, a mask was firmly in place. “Stay alive for your son,” he said, before walking off in the direction of Diamond City.

* * *

Quinn’s scream tore through him, her hand crushing his fingers as he sat beside her. She sounded like she was dying, pure agony carved through her beautiful face, tears streaming down her cheeks as she lay on her back, clutching at him. He held onto her, wanting to soothe her pain, knowing he could not.

“Push,” said the midwife – or was she a doctor – standing on the other side of Quinn, “just one more push!”

It was three, Quinn’s shrieks becoming sharper with each one. For the briefest of moments, Nate found himself back on that battlefield, surrounded by the dying, Crofts’ blazing blue eye fixed on him. Quinn’s fingernails dug into him, bringing him back from the brink.

And then it was over, his wife collapsing onto the pillows, taking huge, sobbing breaths, sweat pouring down her. Nate hugged as hard as he dared, pushing back her soaked hair and kissing her forehead. The baby was whisked away before he could see it, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t know if he wanted to remain with his wife. The cries of the baby called to him, and something overwhelming seemed to expand in his chest. He was a father. That was _his_ child.

Quinn looked awful. Dark shadows circled her eyes, her skin pale and clammy. She shivered, staring at the door they had taken the baby out of, her breathing shallow and quick.

“You did it, hon,” Nate mumbled into her ear, holding her close. “You did it.”

“I don’t want to see them,” Quinn said.

“What?” Nate looked at her and saw fear in her eyes. “Why?”

“I don’t deserve to be a mother. I don’t deserve this, any of this. Don’t bring the baby back.”

“Quinn-”

“Don’t bring the baby back!” Quinn cried, grabbing the front of Nate’s shirt and yanking him forward. She sounded close to tears, and her strength surprised him. Before he could stammer out an argument, an angel swept over to them in the form of a nurse.

“Hey,” she said soothingly, crouching down next to Quinn and dabbing at her forehead with a damp towel. “Calm down.”

Nate braced for impact. If there was one thing would cause Quinn to go off like a bomb, it was being told to ‘calm down.’ But to Nate’s surprise, she turned and looked at the nurse, her face seemingly searching for something, _anything_ , to save her.

The nurse smiled. “It’s natural to be scared. You’ve just become a momma, and that’s a _big_ thing. But you’ve got the best years of your life ahead of you, filled with joy and love. Their first steps. The first time they call you ‘mommy.’ Their first day of school...you’ve got it all to come. But right now, savour this moment. Because...” the nurse paused, looking up the ward and smiling, “you have a little man that is desperate to meet you.”

“...a boy?” Quinn breathed, fingers tightening around Nate’s again. “A little boy?”

The nurse nodded and stood up, moving out of the way as the midwife came in clutching a blue bundle. She went to pass the baby to Nate, but he held up his hands and shook his head.

“I think the real hero of the hour deserves the first hold,” he said.

The baby went to Quinn. As soon as he touched her arms, the fear in her features melted away, replaced by something Nate couldn’t quite place. He’d never seen her look at anyone like that before. He leaned forward, moving the blanket slightly, and touched the baby’s soft skin with his thumb. It was an electric shock coursing through his system, and all at once he understood. He was beautiful; a miracle. He was...he was...

“Shaun,” Quinn whispered, turning his tiny fingers over in her own. “We were still going to call him Shaun, right?”

“Yes,” said Nate, barely aware that the nurses had slipped out of the room. “Shaun.” Nate put his head on her shoulders and smiled. “So...this is the beginning of the best years of our lives?”

Quinn placed the gentlest of kisses on Shaun’s head and smiled as she said, “I can’t wait.”

* * *

Quinn stood at the bar, a bottle of whiskey next to her, slowly depleting it as she drowned her sorrows. Vadim Bobrov looked her up and down, examining her power armour. His eyes settled on the helmet she had placed on the bar next to the whiskey, a large dent in the top.

“What caused that, friend?” he asked cheerfully as he cleaned out a shot glass.

“I threw a temper tantrum,” Quinn replied, knocking back the cheap whiskey and filling up her glass. “And slam dunked it into the ground.”

“Excellent!” Vadim said in a false tone that suggested it was not excellent at all.

The bar was near to closing, the usual drifters and drinkers either long gone or long since passed out on the sticky floor. Cigarette smoke hung like a heavy fog above their heads, adding to the dark and gloomy atmosphere. The dim lights flickered occasionally from the lamps and neon signs scattered around the place; Yefim Bobrov would descend upon each one and shake it until it stopped, a grim look on his face. _The same face the last time I was here._

The last time... She had stumbled across the Dugout Inn when she and Piper had bluffed their way into Diamond City. After a quick peruse of Publick Occurrences, the smart-mouthed reporter had taken her for a much needed drink. It had been whiskey again, of course, and she’d drunk Piper right under the table. Quinn smiled bitterly at the memory and drained the fiery amber liquid, savouring the burn, even though it was less than pleasant. Her throat hurt, but she drank on. Soon she would be so numb she wouldn’t feel at all, and that suited her just fine.

_“...drinking to deal with your problems...”_

Quinn stared down at her empty glass, her stomach writhing. As much as she despised the thought, Danse was right. Not just about the drink. All of it. The last few months had been a blur of horror that she could barely grasp, let alone accept. The world was gone. Her friends, her family, her life; obliterated. What did she have left? Nate could have pulled her through this, could have led the way to finding their son. But he lay dead underground, cold and alone, forever locked in the moment of his murder. And now here she was, focused on Shaun.

But what would happen when – no, _if_ – she reached him? Then what? All that awaited them was carving out a bloody, brutal living in the wasteland, each day a fight to survive. How many times had she beaten that raider around the head? More times than necessary. It had felt different to shooting; personal, powerful, like she was finally in control. The very concept made her skin crawl. She had adapted far too quickly to the role of a monster; what kind of parent would make their child do the same?

Quinn picked up the whiskey bottle as firmly as she dared, gave the Bobrov brothers a curt nod, and stomped out to the exit. From behind her, she heard a small sigh of relief. She didn’t care. Danse was right; she was a mess and she needed help. It was a strange feeling, to be so sure of something, but every fibre of her being knew he was the only one who could help her; the only one she wanted to help her.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped outside.

Diamond City, shrouded in twilight, greeted her. The buildings were stacked as high as the eye could see, like boxes piled on top of each other and turned into houses as an afterthought. Little electric lights hung from railings and walls, spattering the dwelling with glittering stars, close enough to touch. Only the central marketplace blazed with colour, every inch of it lit up like the sun. Colourful shawls and blankets draped over the stands and stalls; Quinn felt like she had been transported to an Arabian fairytale...with an odd, American baseball twist thrown into the mix.

When they had arrived into the city, Danse had stalked off on his own, ignoring the calls of his name. _Asshole,_ she had thought, before settling herself into the seediest bar with the cheapest liquor. Quinn glanced around, the cold air making her head swim. It felt like she was in a constant state of drunk these days, alcohol being her only solace. Well, not her only solace.

_Where the hell is Danse?_

She’d really fucked it up this time. He’d opened up to her about Cutler, and at the first opportunity, she had used it against him. She needed to find him. She needed to apologise, as hard as she may find it. Swaying slightly, bottle clutched in her grip, she stomped off into the centre of Diamond City.

* * *

It was high in the lonely stadium seats that she found him. He was sat in his power armour, an open – but untouched – bottle of beer clutched between his hands. It looked tiny compared to the power armour, so much so that Quinn almost laughed. But the expression on his face drove away any mirth from her lips; he stared blankly ahead, his eyes dead and hollow, and didn’t bother to look at her when she approached.

“Danse, I...” Quinn began. She swallowed, her mouth dry, her throat tight. She had never been any good at saying sorry. She had always hated admitting she was wrong. Danse stared down at his bottle as if she hadn’t even spoken. “Fuck.” Quinn rocked on her heels, her heart hammering in her chest. “I...I’m _sorry_. I’m so _so_ sorry for what I said. I took something you said in confidence to me and I threw it back in your face. I just...I wanted to hurt you, because I was hurting. It was wrong, and you were right about...well, about everything. I put myself in the worst possible danger, to drive everything from my mind. I drink so I can forget. And if I die...then I don’t have to be responsible for raising Shaun in this shitty world.”

He did look up at her then, frowning, but still didn’t speak. She sighed.

“Look, I know you’re not going to forgive me for this. If at all. I wouldn’t blame you if you did, I just...” She turned to leave.

“Whenever I try to help, I always push too far,” he said in a quiet voice. “Whatever I do, it backfires, one way or another, even if I am certain it was right. I was too hard on you today. Again.”

Quinn’s heart felt like it was going to burst. “Bullshit,” she said. “You told me something I should have been told a long time ago. You did what you thought was best. I was angry at first, but you were the kick up the ass I needed.”

There was a long silence.

“I should never have questioned your dedication as a parent,” Danse said, glancing down at the bottle again. “It’s not something I could understand. Not truly. I apologise for-”

“No,” Quinn said, waving his apology away. “No, I don’t accept it.”

“I see...” Danse looked crestfallen; the hand holding the bottle twitched.

She sat down next to him and drank deeply from hers. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I’d have died somewhere in the Commonwealth a long time ago, whether through being an idiot, or by just...” she paused, “...losing hope.”

Danse’s head turned sharply to her, his eyes wide. Quinn took a deep, trembling breath and continued.

“...if you hadn’t helped me as much as you had, Shaun would be an orphan. That’s a fact. You stop me going too far. No one else but Nate ever managed to do that.” Her head was hurting. She raised the whiskey to her lips, but before it could make contact, it stopped. Danse held the bottom of the bottle, looking at her. Quinn considered this, and then nodded, letting Danse pluck it from her grasp.

He stood up, walked towards the edge of the seats, and poured the whiskey away. There was a pause, and then his beer followed with a smile. When he returned to her, Quinn had a giddy grin on her face.

“Give me the bottle,” she said. The idea had struck her from nowhere, cutting through the gloom that had been clouding her thought. No one could ever say she didn’t follow her impulses.

“Why?”

“Because I bet I can throw mine further than you can throw yours.”

“That is utterly childish,” Danse said, scowling, but still allowing her to take it back.

Quinn cranked back her arm and hurled it as hard as she could. It tumbled down into the marketplace and landed with a splat in the mud that sprayed up into the face of an unsuspecting guard.

Quinn cackled. “Yes! Score one for the pre-war relic! Eat that, palad-”

Danse stepped forward and with a loud grunt, launched his own bottle into the sky. It soared like a bald eagle, the wind whistling through the neck so that it seemed to scream as it flew across Diamond City. Quinn watched it, her mouth hanging open.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

“I think I win,” Danse said with a triumphant grin.

The bottle curved down in a graceful arc, spinning in its descent, and hit one of the large spotlights that illuminated the marketplace, knocking out its light as the beer bottle exploded into a thousand pieces. Razor sharp shards rained down on the unsuspecting drunkards and guards below. The spotlight wobbled, teetered on the edge of its resting place, and then toppled down into the city, crashing straight through the roof of one of the stores.

Danse stared in open-mouthed horror, glancing at his hands, and then back at the fruits of his labour. Quinn clapped him on the back, smirking.

“You know, I think you’re right,” she said, picking up her dented helmet and sauntering off. “You won.”

Danse threw a nervous look at the chaos below and followed her, his head bowed down. “Where are we going?” he hissed.

“To a friend’s,” Quinn replied. “She runs the local newspaper. I’m sure she’ll give us a place to crash.”

“I see.” He fell silent again as they walked through the city, fixing his gaze firmly on the ground as they walked through the yelling security guards swarming around the collapsed roof. The owner was outside, throwing a fit, yelling that it had been lucky no one was inside. Danse seemed to relax at this, but he still looked troubled as they move past towards Publick Occurrences.

“I should confess,” he said, throwing a glance back at the noisy scene. “That man will have to pay for his roof to be fixed because of me. It wouldn’t be right of me to-”

Quinn caught his arm as he turned, pulling him towards her with a shake of her head. “Don’t. People are already wary of the Brotherhood around here. If they realise what caused that little...accident, it could tarnish the Brotherhood’s reputation as troublemakers. Leave it.”

“But the cost of repairs-”

“I’ll sort it out,” said a new voice. “The paper can run a piece about a certain _anonymous_ donation over the recent accident in Diamond City marketplace.”

Quinn turned to see Piper stood at the open door of Publick Occurrences, arms folded and wearing a wry smile.

“Piper!” she cried, stomping over to hug her.

“Woah, Blue, easy!” Piper held up her hands, laughing. “Show me some love when you’re out of your tin suit. I don’t want any broken ribs.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem.” She sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking?”

“Maybe a little,” Quinn said sheepishly.

Piper rolled her eyes and jerked her head to the door. “Well, at least I was spared this time. Come on in and you can introduce me to your friend here.”

* * *

She had tried to stay awake. She really had. Quinn had sat in her chair, Nuka-Cola in hand, listening to Piper’s updates while she had been away – _you know, I haven’t seen Valentine in months. Not since you guys left on your little adventure_ – but alcohol had a funny way of making her sleepy. It wasn’t until she dozed off, dropping her drink all over the carpet, that Piper had called it a night.

Sleep had come easily enough, despite the lumpy sofa hurting her back a little, and Danse’s soft snores from the floor (he had insisted, but only after he’d mopped up her Nuka-Cola first). But her dreams had been broken and disturbed, and she found herself waking up several times throughout the night. Now she lay here, still feeling slightly drunk as she stared at the ceiling, wondering what awaited her in the morning. They were almost there. They were almost at Sanctuary.

Danse started to twitch, mumbling. Quinn watched him, uncertain what she should do. He had said to leave him, but…

_Nate struggling, crying in his sleep, begging to God to stop. He was sorry, he was sorry, God, he was sorry._

She made a snap decision. Sliding off the sofa, Quinn crawled towards him, moving behind his head and out of his fighting arc, and clamped her hands down on his shoulders, shaking him hard. Danse gasped and lashed out, smacking his hand on the floor. Quinn quickly shuffled around him, using her body weight to pin him down, whispering to him.

“Danse, you’re in Diamond City,” she hissed, alarmed at how hard he was struggling. Nate had definitely not been as strong as this. She clung onto him anyway and continued, “and you’re safe with me. You’re safe-”

Her words were cut short as he shoved her off him with a grunt, pushing himself backwards across the floor until he was pressed up against the sofa, chest rising and falling frantically.

“Everything alright down there?” Piper called sleepily from upstairs.

“Fine!” Quinn replied, rubbing her smarting elbow as she sat up straight. She looked at Danse, who was blinking rapidly, realisation dawning on him. “I just...fell off the sofa. That’s all.”

Piper gave a quiet laugh. “You klutz, Blue.” A few seconds later, Quinn heard her mumble and turn over. She had fallen asleep again.

Quinn turned her attention back to Danse; one hand was on the floor, holding himself up, the other digging its fingers deep into the cloth seats of the old sofa. His breathing was ragged, sweat dripping down him. Quinn picked herself up and grabbed an old towel that had been left on the table, parts of it stained with Nuka-Cola. It was dry, at least. She crouched down next to him and tried to wipe his face, but Danse pulled away from her, scowling.

“Don’t,” he said, struggling to talk between his gasping breaths. “Just...leave me alone.”

_I'm fine. Stop...stop fussing._

“Alright.” She got to her feet, feeling helpless, useless. She had known how to calm Nate down, but Danse? It was a mystery to her. Quinn held back a sigh and made her way towards the front door for some fresh air.

“Wait.” Danse’s voice was a croak now, but she heard him all the same. Quinn stopped. He tried to speak, but kept tripping over his words, before eventually forcing out, “I’m sorry. I don’t want...don’t go.”

Quinn looked at him, surprised, and then walked back to him, passing him the towel as she dropped down beside him. He took it without a word, rubbing it over his face and grimacing at the muck that came off with it.

“Looks like you owe Piper a new one,” Quinn said, shooting him a little smile. Danse gave a small laugh and threw the towel at his feet, sighing.

“I am tired of seeing their faces,” he mumbled.

“What?”

Danse frowned and shook his head. “Nothing.”

An odd quiet fell over them. It was comfortable, but tense; Quinn had a feeling the paladin was building up the nerve to ask something, though she wasn’t sure what. It was his body language. Every inch of him seemed constricted, as if he was waiting for a blow to strike him dead.

Several minutes passed. Finally, Danse cleared his throat. “I know this may sound like a strange question, but tell me...what do you think about Scribe Haylen?”

_Where the hell does he get these weird questions?_ Quinn thought to herself. Instead, she said, “Scribe Haylen? Why, is something wrong with her?”

“No, not at all. Haylen's doing well. I simply wanted to talk to you about her, but I wanted to know what you thought of her first.”

Quinn was confused. She barely knew Haylen, and Danse was aware of it. “She's as dedicated as they come. A real team player.” _Is that what he’s looking for?_

Apparently it wasn’t. “I couldn't agree more. But I wasn't looking for an evaluation of her performance as a scribe. I wanted to know what you thought of Haylen...as a person.”

Quinn laughed, despite herself. Paladin Danse, looking past someone’s work ethic; stranger things had happened. “So there _is_ a heart beating under all that armour after all.”

Danse smiled. “I suppose I deserve that.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around the room, his fingers tapping haphazardly on the floor. “I just don't normally find these discussions easy to handle, so I try to avoid them at all costs. The truth is, I'm worried about her. Since you and I are getting along so well, I felt like I could confide in you about it...to get your honest opinion.”

“Well, I appreciate that you think you can talk to me,” Quinn said, and she meant it. “But what’s the problem with Haylen? Wouldn’t she be better to talk to about this?”

“No.” Danse shook his head, his body tensing up again. “A few months before you found us, one of my men was shot multiple times by Raiders. Haylen stayed by that Knight's side for two days straight without sleep, fighting to keep him alive...but he was on a slow decline. I decided that his suffering needed to end and ordered Haylen to administer an overdose of painkillers so he could die with dignity. Even though I'm certain she wanted to continue fighting for that Knight's life...” Danse stopped and sighed. “She injected him without question.”

“Are you asking me whether or not I approve?” Quinn asked. It sounded like a horrendous decision to make, right or not. How many more hard decisions had he had to make over the course of his career?

“Of course not,” Danse said, his tone suddenly harder. “I stand by every order I've ever given. That soldier was gravely wounded. Even if by some miracle he happened to survive, he would have been paralysed for life. But the decision whether or not to ease that soldier's suffering isn't the point here. The point is what happened later that same evening. Haylen approached me while I was on watch.” The paladin went quiet, a series of emotions flickering across his face. He suddenly stood up, pacing about the room; when he spoke again, his voice was strained.

“She didn't say a word, but I could tell something was wrong. After what felt like an eternity, she collapsed into my arms, crying. I...didn't know what to do, so I just held her for a while. A few minutes later, she stopped, kissed me on the cheek, and simply said “Thank you” before heading back into the police station. Right then it hit me...maybe I pushed her too hard. I ordered her to ignore her instincts. To do something her medical training told her was wrong. That's why I'm worried about her...and for that matter, everyone under my command.”

Quinn climbed to her feet, biting her lip. Had he been thinking about their argument earlier? Or was this something deeper, something that had been bothering him for longer than perhaps even he realised himself? She took a step towards him and said, “This isn’t about Haylen, is it? It’s about you. Talk to me, Danse.”

He looked at her for a moment, and then seemed to sag, his shoulders dropping as he sighed and shook his head. “I can’t hide it from you, can I? Look, four soldiers...over half my team, are gone. Each one of them died because of decisions that I made. I understand the risks that come with the job. We all do. But how can anyone have confidence in me anymore? Hell, how can I have confidence in myself?”

Danse’s earlier words suddenly sprung to mind. What had he said?

_I am tired of seeing their faces._

She was close to him now, close enough to touch him. Against her better judgement, Quinn reached up and laid a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped. She was startled to find he was shaking again.

“If it makes you feel better,” she said softly, “I believe in you.” Her hand dropped away from him.

“Actually, it does.” He glanced at where she had touched him and then looked back at her. His whole face, so anxious and confused moments before, had relaxed, ease spreading to every line and scar. Danse cleared his throat. “Well, looks like things have taken a turn. I signed up to be your sponsor so I teach you everything that I know, but it looks like I'm the one that needed the lesson today.”

Quinn smiled as she walked back to the sofa and dropped down onto it, wincing as her head spun slightly. It seemed the whiskey wasn’t through with her yet.

Danse followed suit, returning to his spot on the floor. “All joking aside,” he said, “I'm pleased that we had this discussion, and with all the problems you're facing, you still took the time to listen. It's comforting to know that I can speak to you as more than just your commanding officer.”

“Does this mean you'd be there to hold me if I ever needed it?” Quinn said without thinking. She stopped, her eyes widening. No, whiskey was certainly not done with her that night. She threw him a glance, noting his stunned expression, and then laid out on the sofa, cheeks burning. It had been a good end to the conversation, and yet here she was again, _fucking it up._

To her great surprise, the paladin dignified her question with a response.

“I...I don't know,” Danse stammered. “I never thought you'd ask me something like that. It would depend...on the circumstances, but I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens when the time comes.”

Quinn rolled onto her side and studied him. He was looking at her earnestly, if a little bit confused. They stared at each other for a moment, the silence now decidedly awkward. Danse coughed.

“Anyway, thanks for letting me get that off my shoulders,” he said, lying back down on the floor. “I think it's been weighing on me more than I realised. I'm only sorry you had to see me at my worst, instead of at my best.”

Quinn returned to lying on her back, pretending to be more interested in the ceiling than she really was. “Danse,” she said, “if everyone’s best was as half as good as your worst, the Commonwealth would be a much better place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to hokuto-ju-no-ken and ravenbohique from tumblr for reading over this. How many of you caught the blatant RvB reference?
> 
> This chapter came about because I realised I've spent about eleven chapters looking over all of Danse's flaws, but not a single one of Quinn's. Perfect characters are boring. I want her to be wrong. I want her to be an asshole. I want her to someone you don't always get along with.
> 
> I hope I achieved that with this addition.


	13. The Goddamn Teleporter

Dust swirled at Quinn's feet as she left the ruins of Boston city, Danse at her side. They walked in silence, crossing the northern bridge without incident. An old ship lay in ruins beneath it, wedged under the buckling frame, recent signs of life scattered across its rusting deck. Where its occupants were, Quinn wasn't too certain, but the splashes of blood on the bridge and boat, along with a rotting, bloated mirelurk corpse bobbing lazily in the water gave her a good idea. With this in mind, they crept across to the other side of the river; an old children's tale nestled itself firmly in Quinn's head.

_Who's that trip-trapping on my bridge?_

More blood now, and pieces of human body parts; a finger here, a leg there. Quinn edged around them feeling queasy as a swarm of flies erupted from the grisly offerings as she approached. She looked up, and saw with some relief they were close to the end now. A fresh set of ruins were in sight.

_"Who's that trip-trapping on my bridge?" her father growled, peering over an old illustrated book, a mischievous gleam in his eyes._

_It's me,_ Quinn thought, clutching her weapon tight to her chest. What would jump out on the other side? The tales had said a troll, but in her mind, all she could think of was her father, scarred with radiation burns, his usual beer can still clutched in his gnarled grip.

Her feet hit solid ground and she breathed a sigh of relief. No monsters in sight, real or imaginary. Quinn scolded herself for her childish fancies and pushed on, catching up with Danse. He had barely spoken to her today; the morning had been quiet when they had left Diamond City after a hasty breakfast at the noodle bar. Perhaps if Piper had joined them, things would have been livelier, but she had said she would meet them at Sanctuary - something about having a donation drive article to write - and waved them off with a smirk at Danse's red face.

Quinn couldn't stop thinking about last night. The comment she had made - so flippant, so _easy_ \- was fresh in her mind, making her stomach crawl with embarrassment and guilt...and also intrigue.

_Does this mean you'd be there to hold me...?_

He hadn't said no.

It was almost peaceful, she thought, staring out at the desolate landscape. The chaos of the city felt like a distant memory. Quinn smiled bitterly to herself. It was a warped reflection of how things had been in her time, all those years ago. She walked on, and found herself wondering what Danse was thinking about. Had he forgotten what she had said, or was he choosing to ignore it? Did he care at all, or had she made him uncomfortable with it? Maybe she had gone too far again; he'd reacted almost the same last time she had...

_But he didn't say no._

The ring around her neck was pulling down on her again, a terrible burden that increased with every thought and fancy. It felt as if it wanted to drag her into the earth and suffocate her; perhaps soon it would tighten and choke her instead. Nate had been dead only a few months and already her eyes were wandering, her thoughts straying from the promise she had made at the altar.

_But what is Danse thinking?_

 “I need to know something, soldier,” Danse said, making her jump.

_Oh crap._

“Yeah?”

“Yesterday you said-”

_oh crap oh crap oh crap_

“-that you didn’t care about the Brotherhood and that you may not return to the Prydwen once we have your son.”

_Oh._ Was this disappointment she felt? Quinn shifted uncomfortably in her armour as Danse went on.

“My question is,” Danse said, “why did you join the Brotherhood if you have no apparent interest in our goals or...well, anything about us?” He frowned. “I feel like I have misjudged your character; I was under the impression you embraced our values. And if I have that wrong about you, then what else am I mistaken about?”

Quinn sighed. Her feelings for the organisation were so complicated, she barely understood them herself; how could she explain her thoughts to someone as dedicated as Danse? Still, if there was someone she wanted to understand, it was him. Maybe he would be as confused as her, but she could at least _try_ to explain.

 “When I said that I didn't care, I was just…” Quinn tried to find the right words, “...I was just talking shit, really. Shaun is my priority, and he always will be. When you tried to bring the Brotherhood into it as a way to make me see sense, I didn’t want to hear it. You can be as dedicated to a cause as you like, but when you have a child…the world you know ceases to exist. What you were is gone forever, and in its place is this child that _you_ made. I joined the Brotherhood originally because I thought it could help me find my boy. So far, it hasn’t delivered, but…” she trailed off.

“But?” Danse prompted. He was watching her intently now.

"But...Christ. I don't know how to begin explaining this." Quinn rocked on her heels, searching for something that made sense. "I think this goes way back, before the war. Before I even met Nate."

"How?"

"Well..." God, what was that phrase her mom had always used? The words seemed to rise from the depths of her past, like ice in a cool summer's drink. How could she ever have forgotten them? "As my mom used to say..."

* * *

“You are off the rails, Quinn!”

Quinn said nothing. She sat in the back seat of the car, the city lights sliding across her window as she stared out into the night. Next to her, her mom seethed, jerking the car with every turn. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, growing heavier with every passing second. Quinn shut her eyes, ignoring the spinning sensation inside her head.

“How many times?” her mom said suddenly, making a clunky gear change. “How many times are we going to go through this?”

Quinn shrugged, resting her head against the cool glass of the window.

“Don’t you just shrug at me! The police had to call me to pick you up, because you were too drunk to walk home safely. The _police!”_

“Yes, the police.”

The car stopped dead as her mom slammed down on the brakes; Quinn yelped as she hit her head on the door window. Car horns sounded behind them like a terrible orchestra, but her mom ignored it, glaring at her.

“Enough back chat! I am _sick_ of your shit!”

If the sudden halt hadn’t surprised her, the swearing certainly did. Quinn gaped at her mother; she _never_ swore, wouldn’t abide it in her house. And yet here she was, giving her a colourful dressing down, close to tears.

“Mom...” Quinn said weakly, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Her mom shook her head, put the car into gear, and started driving again.

“I’m at the end of my tether, Quinn,” she said in a small voice. The quiet disappointment was worse than her shouting. “You didn’t used to be like this. Now all you do is drink and cause trouble and hang out with that _Kaspie_ boy.”

“His name is Mark,” Quinn said, turning back to the window and shutting her eyes again, “and I love him.” It was true. She did love Mark. He was the coolest person she had ever met - he knew how to have _fun_. He drank. He smoked. He took _drugs_. And he was never, ever caught. Mark was the kind of guy that just didn't give a shit, and had the charisma to carry it off without a hitch; he was everything she craved, everything she wanted to be. Though Quinn would never admit it out loud, the idea of not caring anymore was something she needed so deeply she thought she would break with the longing.

“Maybe you do, but he’s a bad influence. You’re out of control, and you have been ever since your dad and I-”

_“Don’t.”_ Quinn didn’t want to think about the divorce. She didn’t want to think about the hole in her life, labelled with her father’s name. She didn’t want to think about how utterly reluctant he was to fill it again. “Please, mom...don’t.”

“It’s been hard, I know it has. It’s been hard on me, too, what with...” Her mom breathed out hard through her nose. Quinn knew she wouldn’t utter Yvonne’s name; not now, not ever. “...that _hussy_ and-”

“Mom!” Quinn’s voice took on a pleading note, and her mother fell silent. She sighed.

“I’m sorry, honey, I really am, but...” she glared, realisation coming to her, “wait, I’m supposed to be kicking your ass right now.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“...Alright.” Her mom tapped her fingers on the steering wheel irritably. “But tomorrow we are going to start taking things seriously again. Your father wants you to get into college-”

“Fuck him.”

“Quinn!”

“You swore twice! We’re even!” Quinn didn’t have to open her eyes; she could feel her mother’s annoyance from where she was sat.

_“Fine,”_ she said eventually, sounding irked, “but not one more cuss out of you!” She cleared her throat. “ _As I was saying_ , your father wants you to get into college, _and so do I.”_ She said the last part loudly, drowning out Quinn’s complaints. “So we’re going to work on putting you back on track. Enough is enough. You’re going to get control over your behaviour. Understood?”

“...OK.”

* * *

Quinn stared out into space, forgetting everything except that fateful car journey, over two hundred years ago. Her mother had become a dragon, clamping down on her, pushing her to finish high school, dragging her through every hurdle to get her into college. What would have happened if she’d never made it that far? She would certainly have never met Nate. Mark may have even dumped her earlier, going off to college alone, leaving her a ruined mess of his own design, with a developing alcohol addiction. And then when the bombs fell…

_but maybe I would have been able to say goodbye to mom_

“Quinn?” Danse said.

Quinn jumped, coughed, and carried on with a slight stammer. “Th-then as you know, I managed to get into college anyway. My ex broke up with me, and I met Nate. At first I stuck by my old habits, but…”

_“You can’t keep doing this, Quinn!” Nate snapped, snatching the stolen cigarettes from her hand and throwing them across her dorm room._

Quinn started to laugh. “He gave me an ultimatum: him or my roguish ways. I told him to get the fuck out of my dorm. But within two days I was ringing him up, begging him to take me back, that I’d clean up my act for good.”

“And had you?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She had never stolen anything physical again, that was for sure. And she’d cut back on the drinking. But she’d never told Nate that she’d carried on hacking into computers and stealing all the test answers to sell to the other students. A dirty little secret he never knew...and now would never know. Her mirth died almost instantly.

Danse waited patiently for a few seconds for her to speak. When she continued to stare ahead, he chipped in with another question. “How does this relate to your feelings about the Brotherhood? I’m lost.”

“After a few years together, we married. My mom was proud. My dad was not.” _But fuck him_ , she thought. “Mostly we married so I could move on base with him and get away from home. And from any...naughty influences. We were young at the time, early twenties, and the best we could afford for our rings was…”

Quinn hesitated and then smiled. Yes, she would show him. She stopped and pressed the switch to release her from her power armour, ignoring Danse’s confusion. With a grunt, she slid out of her shell, dusted herself down, and then reached down into the front of her shirt. Danse watched her, wide-eyed, as she pulled free the dirty piece of string from which Nate’s wedding ring hung. Then she held up her own hand to show hers.

“They’re absolute pieces of shit,” she said fondly, “the cheapest things we could find. And I love them for it.” Quinn leant against her power armour and stared out onto the horizon below. “Moving to that base was the best thing that could have happened to me. Even though I was left out of any of the military doings, you could feel the discipline in the air; almost taste the order and security. For the first time since I was thirteen, I had stability in my life. And that is exactly what I feel about the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood makes you feel...stable?”

Quinn nodded. “It makes me think of home, with Nate, before...everything. It’s discipline. It’s order. It’s the idea that even though the world is completely fucked up, you... _we_ have the resources and the leadership to make a difference. But..."

"There's that 'but' again," Danse said with a frown.

Quinn gave a small shrug. "I don’t always agree with the methods. Perhaps I’m a woman out of my time, but the Brotherhood spends so much energy hoarding technology, when it could be helping people."

"We help people by protecting them from themselves," Danse said flatly, tapping his fingers on his gun.

"It’s one thing to take a knife away from a child so they don’t hurt themselves, but if you don’t feed and look after them, then what difference have you made?”

Danse looked less than impressed. “You of all people should understand the evils of technology and how easily they can be abused. You experienced it firsthand. Look what it did to the world! Surely you can see that it should be our priority to deal with _that_ first.”

“Yes, and I agree with that,” Quinn replied, shrugging again. “But can’t you see what the Brotherhood is capable of achieving when it sets its mind to it? An airship, built with two hundred year old scrap! The Prydwen is an absolute marvel, even by pre-war standards. Are you saying the Brotherhood couldn’t deal with technology hoarding _and_ help the people of the wasteland make better lives for themselves? It just doesn’t seem right. And that’s before we even get into the attitude towards ghouls and-”

“Let’s not start that argument again,” Danse said, holding up his hand to stop her. Quinn was glad. She had almost said ‘and synths’; that would have opened up an entirely different can of worms. Danse studied her, frowning, but then nodded. “I may not agree with you, but I can see the merit in your argument. You have given me something to think on.”

He waited for her as she climbed back into her armour, and then set off by her side once more. “It pleases me,” he said, “that the Brotherhood reminds you of home. That's something we have in common. It’s the only real home I’ve ever had, the only place where I've had my own bed, my own quarters, and a hot meal ready for me every day." He stared out into the distance, lost in thought for a moment, and then looked at her. "Stable foundations are important, and after the unforgiving unpredictability of my childhood..."

Danse sighed to himself and smiled. "I don’t know what I’d do without the Brotherhood.”

* * *

They skirted through Sanctuary with barely a second glance, the inhabitants casting wary looks at the distant, hulking figures of Quinn and Danse. No one approached them, which was fine by Quinn. With her helmet on, she would appear as nothing but a stranger to them; even Preston, normally so warm towards her, watched from afar, his hands tight on his gun. Quinn and Danse passed through with no trouble, and began the slow climb up the hill.

"I thought we were going to Sanctuary?" Danse asked as they left the shabby settlement behind.

"We are," Quinn said, "but there's something I need to do first."

Danse followed her without another word, though she could sense his confusion. On they trudged, higher and higher up the winding path. The skeletons started to appear, some wearing ragged civilian clothes, others wearing military uniform.

_Panic choking the air as hordes of people fight to get through the tiny metal gate. Fighting, pushing, crying; a gunshot fires into the air, a lit match against people's terror. Screams explode through the crowd and the shoving begins, kindly neighbours transforming to raging monsters as they wrestle with the soldiers for their guns. Quinn looks back down the hill as they open fire, old and young alike razed down by the bullets._

_"Quinn!" Nate screams, Shaun pressed to his chest. "Come on!"_

Her breath was coming quick now, her chest tightening as she struggled against her panic. Quinn kept on walking, retracing her steps, the memory burnt into her mind by fallout fire. The metal platform was near now, tangled by dead weeds and shrouded by dirt.

_The fire. The fire in the sky is spreading. It rushes towards her the way water rushes through a broken dam into a valley. Quinn crouches down, shielding her face as the wind picks up, the air dry and hot, an acrid smell suddenly stinging her nose. She stares at Nate as he turns his back to the mushroom cloud, protecting their son with his body; in that moment, she loves him more than she could ever say, could ever hope to tell him._

_The floor rumbles, and they are swallowed by darkness._

Quinn's legs gave way and she toppled to her knees on the platform. She was suffocating, her lungs clawing for breath as her throat betrayed her, cutting her off. Making a gasping noise, she fell forward onto all fours, a dizziness sweeping over her as the floor rumbled and began to move down.

"Deep breaths, soldier." A familiar voice cut through the haze. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. Come on, do that for me now. Deep breaths, with me."

Danse was crouching down beside her, removing her helmet with the emergency external clamps. Quinn wheezed as he pulled her into a sitting position and held her upright. Her hands grabbed for his without thinking, and despite the barrier of the armour, she felt her throat relax slightly as the huge ceiling panels shut over them with a loud clang. Sweet air began to leak back into her, each breath more delicious and satisfying than the last.

After a few minutes, she felt almost normal again, except for the shakes. With a weak smile and a nod, she let him help her to her feet. "...Thank you."

"You're welcome." His eyebrows knotted together as he scanned her with sharp eyes. "Is everything alright"

"Just..." Quinn motioned to the dimly lit area, "...the vault."

"Ah. Old ghosts?"

_Or new ones._ "Yeah, you could say that." She looked around, feeling tense. This was a strange thing for him to follow her into; she had to give him the option at least. "If you want to stay behind, you can. Don't feel the need to force yourself through here for my sake. I'll only be a few minutes."

"Negative. The old vaults are a death trap for the unprepared. You never know what you'll find down here."

Quinn frowned. Either Danse was completely oblivious as to where they were - which could be likely, as she had never mentioned the number of the vault she had emerged from - or he was trying very hard to play it cool. One look at his earnest face told her it was the former; the man was not a talented liar. Part of her wanted to warn him what he was letting himself in for, but the rest of her simply didn't have the energy to bring up the conversation. He would find out soon enough, one way or another. If he wanted to leave then, she wouldn't blame him.

* * *

The real world seemed to blend with her memories, flickers of the past invading her thoughts as Quinn made her way through the vault; the panic, the shock, the calm way the staff herded them towards their final resting place.

_Their final resting place,_ Quinn thought dully, _not mine._

Skeletons wearing vault suits littered the floor, bullet holes and scorch marks marring the smooth, metal surroundings. Deeper they walked, the walls and ceiling feeling like they were pressing down on her with the weight of the earth above. Quinn’s chest tightened as she realised she was encased in steel twice over; the vault and her power armour. Her body started to tremble again, and she staggered to the side, leaning against the corridor wall as her breath choked in her throat once more.

_Nate, walking in front of her, Shaun crying, vault-tec staff swarming everywhere. Pulling at her clothes. Pressing a new vault suit into her hands. Leading them away for processing. She wants to hold Shaun, wants to take him into her arms, but she knows Nate would never let him go._

“Soldier?”

“I need to get out of this...” Quinn wheezed as Danse looked on, alarmed and confused. “...this fucking... _thing_.” She hit the switch and felt cool air rush in as the armour released her. Struggling hard, Quinn fell out backwards, landing with a bump that knocked the wind out of her. The metal floor bit into her bare hands, the ice and frost jagged beneath her fingers, and all at once, she was lost.

_“Nate!”_

_Quinn smashed her fists on the frosted glass, her arms as heavy as lead, hands aching as she tried to break through the glass. The frost was tearing into her skin, stinging her, devouring her. Two figures crowded around her husband’s pod, opening it to reveal him...and Shaun. The strangers reached into the pod and tried to take hold of their son._

_Thud_

_Thud_

_Thud_

_“Nate!” Her throat was raw, every movement an effort in the overwhelming cold. “Nate! Nate!” If he could just hear her, he’d be alright. Nate knew what to do. He always knew what to do. If she could just scream loud enough, everything would be fine. “Nate!”_

_The gunshot ripped through her as Nate’s body jerked, his arms falling limp. He slumped inside his pod, and the strangers held Shaun in their clutches._

_Nate Nate NateNatenatenatenate_

_The word repeated over and over like a skipping record. Was she still screaming his name? Had she even made a noise at all? Quinn didn’t know. Her mind was blank, her eyes drawn to Nate’s still form, blood rushing out of the fresh wound. Then instinct kicked in and all thought of Nate was driven from her mind. He was no longer important._

_Shaun._

_Quinn beat on the glass again, her blows so powerful, the door seemed to rattle. Where was her son? She could see in the darkness a figure dressed in white, holding a small bundle close to their chest. Then a face obscured her view, harsh and grim, fierce lines etching out an expression devoid of empathy._

_He said something, but the ringing in Quinn’s ears drowned him out. And then he was gone, and all that remained was a cryo pod containing her husband. Was he still alive? He wasn’t moving. Oh god, Nate._

_The chill was increasing. It was getting harder to breathe. It-_

“Quinn!”

“Nate!” Quinn screamed, kicking out with her feet, struggling against the strong grip that pinned her to the wall. She struck metal, her foot bouncing away with a clunk. Quinn didn’t care. Again and again she kicked out, shrieking for Nate.

“You’re in the Commonwealth!” the voice yelled back at her. It did not belong to Nate, but it carried an undeniable authority. “And you are safe!”

Her struggles lessened, and the voice immediately dropped in volume. “You’re in the Commonwealth,” it repeated gently, “and you are safe.”

“Danse?” Quinn blinked, her panic slowly lifting. The paladin was crouched down in front of her, his metal-plated hands holding her firmly on the spot. His face was as white as a sheet, and his eyes were wide, but focused.

“Are you with me, soldier?” he asked, loosening his grip slightly.

Quinn looked around, chest heaving up and down, and realised she was sat on the floor. Further down the corridor, she could see her power armour, locked in position where she had abandoned it. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Quinn nodded. Danse let go of her, but remained where he was. She raised a shaking hand to wipe her face, and was stunned to see it come away drenched in cold sweat.

“What happened?” she asked, though she suspected the answer.

“You were...” Danse fumbled with his words, “...having difficulties, and left your power armour. The next thing I know, you started screaming. I didn’t know what to do, so I...so I dragged you out of the cold and copied what you do for me.”

Quinn looked back down the corridor as she took a few more gulping breaths. It had been the cold which had set her off. It _had_ to be. Shivering slightly, Quinn looked around at the heavy metal walls and floor. Maybe it was a combination of this place as well. She tried to stand, but Danse forced her to sit back down again.

“I think you need another minute,” he said in a strained voice, his features torn by worry. “And I think _I_ need to know what caused such an episode.”

“This...” Quinn tried to start, but found the words stuck in her throat. She coughed, licked her lips, and took another stab at it. “This is where I came from. This is my vault.”

Danse flinched. “Your vault?” He looked around, comprehension dawning on him as he stared down the frosted corridor. “Why have you come back here?”

Quinn moved to get to her feet, and this time Danse stood back and let her. He offered her a hand, and she accepted it, not trusting her shaking legs to hold her weight. She wiped the rest of her face with her sleeve – more to delay giving an answer than anything else – and then spoke. “Because the way into the Institute isn’t safe. It isn’t even stable. It might work, it might not. It might even kill me.” Quinn glanced towards the cryo room and bit her lip. “I wanted to see him one last time before I went. To say goodbye.”

It seemed Danse had no answer to this. But after a few moments, he nodded. “Do you want me to leave you?”

“I...” Quinn considered this. The idea of walking into that room again hit a chord of terror so deep in her heart she thought she would faint. She shook her head. “I don’t want to go in there by myself.” Quinn stopped, shooting Danse a nervous glance, and quickly added, “But I know this must be awkward for you. I’ll come back here another time. I’ll-”

“Let’s go.”

“What?”

He nodded down the corridor. “You don’t want to be alone. I am here. Let’s go.” He held a hand out in a gesture towards the cryo room, motioning for her to take the lead.

* * *

Nate’s tomb was cold and dark, lit only by emergency lighting. His pod was sealed shut, as she had left it, the window frosted over. Quinn approached with care, and having left her power armour behind, found her footsteps so light she could barely hear them. Ice crunched like bones beneath her shoes as she drew closer. Quinn raised a shaking hand and tried to wipe away the mist from the glass, but it remained clouded over. No. She hadn’t wanted to do it like this; she didn’t want to open the pod.

Danse bowed his head slightly as she threw him a fearful glance from across the room. He had kept his distance. Although his face was deadly serious, when he spoke, his voice was unimaginably soft. “Take all the time you need, soldier.”

_I can’t do this,_ Quinn thought as she hit the controls to the pod. _I can’t face him. I can’t..._

The pod let out a long, menacing hiss as it opened, misted air blasting out and covering the floor so she could no longer see her feet. With bated breath, Quinn moved around the open door and came face to face with her husband.

He looked exactly the same as the day he died, jaw slack, body slumped, and his eyelids drooped almost shut, revealing a sliver of his dark brown irises. His skin was tinged an awful grey, coat with a thin layer of frost, thicker icicles hanging from his hair and the angles of his face. She remembered leaning forward, taking the ring from his solid fingers; so cold, so unreal. It wasn’t Nate anymore, and yet the inhuman feel of his hands was the last memory she had of him.

 Quinn wasn’t aware she had fallen to her knees until a sharp pain shot through them. She ignored it. What did it matter? Nate was gone. Shaun was gone. She knew she wasn’t going to get either of them back. The project would fail, and she would die never seeing her son again. Her baby boy.

Fingers scrabbled at the string around her neck, and it took Quinn a moment to realise they were her own. With a rough impatience, she pulled the ring free over her head, holding it aloft so it twisted lazily on the string. “I feel like I should give it back.”

_clunk clunk clunk_

“Pardon?”

Quinn could sense Danse stood behind her. “Nate’s ring,” she said. “I should give it back.”

“Why?” Danse said. The confusion in his voice was clear, but why didn’t he understand? Wasn’t he aware of what she had been doing, what she had been _feeling?_ She had no more right to wear these rings than a chem-sucking raider did. And then there was the issue of...

“I stole it from him,” Quinn said flatly. “I took it from his body. I see him murdered, and the first I think to do – the _only_ thing I thought to do – was to take his wedding ring from him. I’m no better than a grave robber. I don’t deserve it.” This too was true, though it wasn’t the only thing that was causing her conflict these days.

“Keep it,” Danse said. “You’re not a thief; it rightfully belongs to you. You bought them together, as a couple – as a team. I think he’d want you to have them...and when you find your son, you have a keepsake of his father to pass onto him.”

She hadn’t considered this. It was almost enough to dull the guilt. Quinn said nothing, but after a while, she looped the string back around her neck. Then she said, with an edge of bitterness, “I wish I could bury him. I hate leaving him down here.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because he deserves better than _this_ ,” Quinn said, gesturing to the cryo pod. “He was a soldier, as dedicated as they come. He should have a proper military funeral, not being buried in some irradiated pit in the wasteland.”

A silence followed these words. Quinn activated her Pip-Boy and Nate’s voice filled the vault. She could almost believe he was sleeping. Any second, he would open his eyes and complain that his back was sore, or that he couldn’t find his screwdriver, or that the baby was getting through his diapers far too quickly, or _“Hun, it’s only ten degrees out there; do I have to do my tinkering in the shed?”_ , or any of the other stupid, meaningless things that used to annoy her. She missed them. She missed _him._

Behind her, Quinn heard Danse move away again; she ignored him and stared at Nate’s body, letting his voice smother her with memories.

“Bye honey, we love you.”

_Click._

Quinn sighed and stood up, moving back to the control panel and pressing the buttons with fierce, stabbing motions. As the pod closed with a loud clunk, she turned and walked away without a second glance. “Come on. I’m sick of this place.”

* * *

It was only when they reached the dirty sunlight of the Commonwealth that Quinn began to feel normal again. She inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the wilderness, so different from the stale air of the vault. “God, I never thought I’d miss the wasteland.”

Danse watched her carefully. “How are you doing, soldier?”

“Better,” Quinn said, giving him a weak smile. She stared out onto the horizon, Sanctuary just visible through the dead trees. Better was an odd word to use; it implied improvement, but not that she was fixed. In truth, Quinn felt drained, with barely enough energy to walk. Yet at the same time, somehow lighter. Still, she knew if she hadn't managed to get back into her armour, Danse may have had to carry her out. “Thank you for what you did in there. I didn’t realise it would be so bad, revisiting that place.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled back at her. “And considering how much you’ve listened to my problems, you can count on me for support when you need it.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

They set off back down to Sanctuary together, the wobble in Quinn’s step lessening the further away from the vault they went. It was as they were halfway down the hill that Danse’s suddenly spoke.

“You said in the vault that the way into the Institute could kill you. What the hell are you doing that could risk that?” He sounded tense, frowning at her as he spoke.

“Danse, my friend,” Quinn said, wondering if he was even going to believe her, “we’re going to build a goddamn teleporter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was stuck on what to name this chapter, and I was going to call it 'Foundations of the Earth', but then I decided to be an utter child instead.


	14. A Maxson Standoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A notice: I am looking for a couple of betas to help me out. My usual one has just come off a well deserved break, and I feel having another beta or two will help spread out the workload for them so I don't stress them out.

"I don't understand why you had to keep this a secret," Danse said for what felt like the thousandth time in the space of five minutes. "A teleporter into the Institute would have been invaluable for the Brotherhood. We could have found a way to send more than one person."

"Ignoring the fact I had already started this project with the Minutemen months before I'd even met you," Quinn said, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice, "as I told you on the Prydwen -- and about six times just now -- the Brotherhood couldn't provide me with what I needed."

"But if you had told Elder Maxson-"

"No!" Quinn snapped, all patience abandoning her. "Are you so blind as to what Maxson is?”

“ _Elder_ Maxson.”

“Elder Maxson,” Quinn conceded grumpily, thinking no twenty year old deserved to be called _her_ elder. “He keeps the bigger picture in mind, but glosses over ‘acceptable’ casualties. If he knew that I had an instant way to infiltrate the enemy, do you really think he would concern himself with the safety of my son?”

Danse didn’t answer.

“Once the Institute realises how I've gotten inside,” Quinn went on, “they will patch up the hole and make it impossible to gain access again. Elder Maxson isn’t stupid; he would expect this, and he would use his only opportunity to take the Institute down, consequences be damned." She breathed out heavily through her nose. "I can't allow that. Shaun comes first, every time. I had hoped the Brotherhood would give me a way that didn't involve an unstable teleporter, but sadly I was mistaken. And so here we are."

Danse shook his head, looking troubled. "I don't think this is a good idea. It's too risky. There _must_ be another way."

"Well, there isn't," Quinn replied bluntly. "And I've wasted far too much time; if I'd just stayed with the Minutemen from the start, I'd probably have Shaun back by now. _And I know what you think about my impatience,_ " Quinn added, before Danse could open his mouth to argue. "But tough. I am done fucking around in the Commonwealth trying to solve the problem, just because I don't like the answer in front of me.” She let out a deep, ragged breath, clenching her hands into fists. “The teleporter is being built, and _I am using it_."

Her tone must have had degree of finality to it, because Danse didn't question her further. They trudged towards Sanctuary in silence, an icy annoyance growing between them. Quinn didn't give a shit. Her nerves were frayed past the point of endurance. All she wanted now was to throw herself into this new task. As they neared the settlement, a figure in a smart uniform stepped out from one of the crumbling houses, his weapon half raised. When she drew close, however, he lowered it; a wide smile appearing on his handsome, gentle face.

"General!" Preston cried, half running, half skipping towards her. "I didn't realise that was you! Where have you been?"

Sturges’ head poked out from a nearby window, eyebrows perked in surprise. "The General's back?" he said. He turned to look at her and blinked. "You're with the Brotherhood now, General?"

"I am," Quinn called back to him, "but that doesn't mean I've abandoned the Minutemen either."

"The General of the Minutemen?" Danse frowned. "Is there anything else I don't know?"

"About as much as I don't know about _you_ , Paladin," Quinn shot back. She looked at Preston, her own face breaking into a cheeky grin. "Preston! Any settlements that need help?"

"Well now that you mention it..." Preston began, but then winked at her. "Since the radio channel was activated and the Castle secured, new recruits have been coming in by the day. We have the numbers to send out regular patrols to the settlements under our protection, all thanks to you." He shook her hand, scowling when Sturges barged him out of the way, his own hand extended. Quinn took it with a laugh, allowing him to vigorously pump her arm. He looked as if he’d run all the way from the house to greet her.

"Welcome back, ma'am," he said. "Honestly, we weren't too sure if we’d see you again, but we kept working on..." Sturges voice trailed off as he gave Danse a wary look.

"This is Paladin Danse," Quinn said, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of Danse. "It’s okay, he knows about the teleporter. He's a friend --  you can trust him.”

Sturges nodded. "Well, as I was saying, we weren't sure if you had left for good, but we decided to work on the thing anyway. A nice challenge to break the monotony of building houses."

"That monotony is giving people shelter," Preston said in a voice so scathing it could have given a deathclaw pause for thought, but Sturges didn’t seem troubled.

"Yeah, but it's not exactly taxing, is it?" Sturges said, shrugging. "Nothing wrong with trying to decipher the plans of technology so advanced most people don't believe it exists."

Quinn laughed. "So, good progress then?"

"Yeah, actually. We had some extra help from a friend of yours. We haven't built anything, because it seemed like a waste of resources if you weren't going to use it, but we got the technical stuff mostly figured out at least."

"A friend of mine?" Quinn asked, but as she said the words, she knew. She _knew._ Piper hadn't seen him for months. He had wanted her to stay in Sanctuary and work on the teleporter. Quinn glanced at the paladin, terror rising up in her. _Oh shit, oh fuck. Please no please no please-_

"Nick!" Sturges bellowed over his shoulder towards the house Preston had initially emerged from. "The General's here! Bring out those plans!"

To Quinn's horror, Nick replied.

"The kid's back?" he called. "About damn time!"

"Nick, stay where you are!" Quinn yelled, her hands tightening on her gun, eyes fixed on Danse. Danse looked at her, frowning as suspicion began to creep into his face. Everyone was staring at her. Even Trashcan Carla and her mercenaries had stopped to gawk, one of them peering with interest over his black sunglasses.

"What?" Nick Valentine shouted back. "Hang on, I can't hear you." He strolled out of the house - still wearing his trademark hat and coat - and undeniably, _unmistakably_ , a synth.

Later on, Quinn would decide that it had been the shock that had saved Nick's life. Danse stared at the detective - completely dumbstruck - for what seemed like an age, his lips silently forming the words _“...friend of mine...real nice guy…”_

By the time he had raised his weapon, Quinn had thrown herself between the two of them, her own rifle directed at Danse. Quinn never thought she would be staring down the barrel of the paladin’s gun; it pointed at her chest -- _Nick’s head height_ , she thought dimly -- still and steady. Her own rifle was trembling, but she kept it aimed firmly at the paladin. The surprise that graced his features was strong, but fleeting; it was quickly replaced by a cold, hardened expression. Danse tried to dodge around her, but she moved with him, consistently blocking Nick from view. Quinn’s heart felt like it was going to break through her ribs, with his glare so intense that her will almost buckled. It took everything she had, but she held fast. If she stepped aside now, Nick would die.

“Stand down, soldier.” He spoke with force, each word a fortress, separated and walled with authority. The weight of it pressed down on her, demanding she moved; Quinn felt her legs tremble as they begged her to obey.

“No.” Was she talking to herself or to Danse? It didn’t matter. The effect was the same; the shakes increased, but her resolve strengthened. She was vaguely aware that Preston and Sturges had pulled out their own guns, too. “ _You_ need to stand down.”

“What possible explanation do you have for sympathising with these machines?” Danse spat. The sheer venom was overwhelming and, in that moment, Quinn wasn’t sure if he would shoot her as well.

“You said you would trust me,” she said, her voice trembling as much as her gun. “You said you would trust me if I told you there was good in a person.”

“A person, not a-”

“Nick is a _good man,”_ she shouted, drowning him out, and Danse stared at her in disbelief, before firing up again.

“That thing is an _it,_ not a man!”

“You’re no prize yourself, bucko,” Nick grumbled from somewhere behind her.

“Nick!” Quinn snapped in alarm as Danse’s face went scarlet.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Quinn fixed her eyes on Danse again. He still hadn’t moved, but an edge of uncertainty had crept into him. At the very least, his scowl had lessened somewhat.

_“Please,”_ she said, “listen to me. I know what you think of synths, but I’ve known Nick for almost as long as I’ve been in the Commonwealth. He’s a detective; he spends his days working with people to look for their missing loved ones. Nick helped me start the search for Shaun -- without hesitation, without asking for anything in return -- and he found my husband’s murderer. He is, in every sense, a _good man_. So I’m begging you. Please, stand down.”

There was a stillness in the air as Danse stood there, taking in her words and mulling them over. Quinn could see the conflict, the trust he had put in her pushing against the values he held so dear. He said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, and then nodded, slowly lowering his weapon. Quinn kept hers up for a few moments, but when his stance relaxed, so did she.

Sturges broke the silence. “We can _trust him_?” he said in a tone that suggested that anyone who trusted Paladin Danse was as mad as a box of frogs.

“Yes, you can,” Quinn shot back at Sturges with a glare of her own. “If it had been anyone else, Nick would be dead and so would I.” She turned to Danse and gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

Danse did not return it.

“I can’t say I’m comfortable with this, but…” Sturges ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Okay, okay, we’re all one big happy family then. And with that in mind, I assume you’re back to work on the teleporter?”

“You know it.” Her teeth chattered together as she spoke, distorting her voice. The adrenaline was wearing off. It had been a frightening moment, almost unreal as the world slowed down around her. He had pointed a gun at her, and she had stood her ground. Even now, she didn’t know if he would have shot her. Had Danse been tempted? And more importantly, if he hadn’t backed off first, would she have gunned him down to save Nick? Nate flashed to mind, body spasming as Kellogg’s bullet ripped through him, and Quinn felt a wave of nausea. Would she have killed Danse?

_I don’t know. God, I don’t know._

“So, uh, Danse?” Sturges went on. “That’s your name, right?”

Danse nodded. “Affirmative.”

Sturges’ eyebrows rose so high, Quinn thought they were on the verge of sprouting wings and flying away. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment -- as any sensible man would when considering teasing a seven foot, armoured soldier carrying a modified laser rifle -- and then smiled. “Alright, Danse. I hear you Brotherhood types are good with technology. Why don’t we leave the fearless General and robot man to do the grunt work, and we’ll make a start on the complicated wiring?”

“Sturges,” Preston said, “you need to show more respect to-”

“It’s fine,” Quinn interrupted, waving down the Minuteman’s objection. “I’m good for a bit of grunt work.”

Sturges shot Preston a triumphant smirk and sauntered off, sticking out his hand towards Nick and taking a page of the plans off him as he went. Danse followed, determinedly not looking at Quinn or the detective, and disappeared with Sturges inside the house.

Quinn sighed. “Come on, Valentine. Let’s see what we need to do.” She took the remainder of the plans off him and opened them up, vaguely remembering Sturges telling her to build the various pieces months ago. Humming to herself, Quinn scanned the paper and muttered at the amount of scrap needed. If her stash was intact, she’d have enough for some of the work, but she’d need Hancock to follow through with his end of the deal to finish the rest.

“Hey, kid,” Nick murmured as they walked towards a cleared out space where a wreckage had stood months ago. “What you did back there...I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Quinn replied, her nose still buried in the plans.

“No, I will mention it.” He grabbed her arm to stop her and gently tugged the papers away. “You put yourself between me and that moron without a second thought. Do you know how many people would actually do that?”

“You’re my friend. You must have a shit social circle if-”

“Most people, friend or not, wouldn’t risk their lives for a synth.”

_Ah._ Now that was interesting. Quinn tilted her head to the side and folded her arms. “Come on, Valentine. Are you telling me none of the people you’ve befriended over the years wouldn’t try to save your ass if you were in trouble?”

“No.”

Nick didn’t elaborate, which was worrying. It was so final, so absolute, as if he felt there was no argument that could stand against it. Did he have a point? Quinn thought back to when she had entered the Commonwealth and gone looking for ‘the detective.’ No one had bothered to mention he was a synth; the first time she had seen his tattered face and metallic, skeletal hand, she had admittedly been unnerved. But he had proven to her, time and time again, that he felt and thought as she did, that his existence was just as human as hers.

“Nick,” Quinn said gently, “I can’t be the only person to recognise you’re a person. You’re selling yourself short.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking it upsets me,” Nick said with a shrug. “It doesn’t. You haven’t lived with the Institute looming over your head your entire life, like many of the people have here. All they know is rumour and fear; most of them have an idea of a synth in their head long before they ever meet one. And when they do, it usually isn’t under the best circumstances.”

Quinn had heard enough talk of the kidnappings -- even seen a synth imposter revealed in Goodneighbor -- to know this was a fair observation. A new question surfaced in her brain, one that made her uncomfortable. If she had never met Nick Valentine, would she see synths the same way she did now?

“Most people are wary,” Nick went on, “and even those who like me would still see my life as...less than a human’s. It’s not their fault; I’m _not_ human, even if I think and act like one. But you were willing to put yourself in front of a gun for a machine.” Nick handed back the plans to her. “You’re a rarity, kid. I just thought you should know that.”

* * *

Sweat trickled down Quinn’s forehead and cheeks as she lugged a large piece of metal across Sanctuary to the foundations of the project. It would have been easier to move it in her power armour, but it had become so sweltering inside the suit that her thoughts on the idea were firmly _‘fuck that.’_ Nick was tinkering away in the distance, grumbling every time he dropped a piece of scrap on his foot.

Finally reaching the work platform, Quinn noticed one of Trashcan Carla’s mercenaries watching her. He clocked her looking back at him and hastily turned away, fixing his black sunglasses and tugging down slightly on the grotty hat he was wearing.

Something clicked into place.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said to Nick, and marched across the settlement, hands on her hips. The mercenary glanced over his shoulder, saw her stomping towards him, and tried to sidle away.

“Don’t even think about it, you tab-dodging molerat!” Quinn yelled, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. The mercenary stared at her, momentarily flummoxed, and then a wry smile flickered over his lips as she launched into her next line. “So you thought you could skimp out on paying your share at the Third Rail and I wouldn’t notice?”

“There a problem?” Trashcan Carla drawled, sizing Quinn up as her hand drifted to the pistol at her hip. The woman had the face of a leathery old boot, and an equally rough personality to match.

“No problem so long as this asshole pays what he owes me,” Quinn snarled, pointing at the man in question. “We’re going go somewhere private and _discuss_ the terms of repayment.”

“Oh come on,” the mercenary said, clearly enjoying himself now, “it was only a few whiskeys.”

“A few whiskeys, several beers, a bottle of vodka, and at least _two_ hookers that you-”

“Alright, _alright,”_ Carla said loudly, raising her hands. She looked from Quinn’s glare to the mercenary’s wicked grin and rolled her eyes. “For Christ’s sake. If you two want to go fuck in the bushes for five minutes, I don’t give a shit. Just don’t come over here making a scene like you wanted him for something else.” Jerking a thumb in the direction of a secluded house down the road, she said, “Piss off. And this is coming out of your wages, Lemmy.”

“Yes ma’am,” the mercenary said, talking over Quinn’s spluttered protests as he grabbed her hand and began dragging her. “Come on, babe.” He smirked and reached over, planting a smack on her backside with a loud _thwack_. Quinn yelped, a deep flush creeping up her cheeks, and gave him a look that suggested imminent murder, but his grin didn’t falter as he led her away.

Once they were out of sight and earshot, she exploded. “Deacon, you asshole!”

Deacon fell into peals of laughter, bent over double as she raged at him.

“You ever hit my ass again and I swear to god-”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Deacon wheezed, tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to calm himself, “that was too far. But you should have seen your _face_ when she - when she-” He erupted into a fresh set of giggles. Quinn glared at him, trying to ignore the fact the corners of her mouth were twitching, but after a few seconds, she relented and joined in. It _had_ been funny.

Deacon stuck his fingers under his sunglasses, wiping away the tears. “You seriously need to work on your acting. But top marks for effort.”

“I aim to please.” Quinn paused, and then folded her arms as she remembered why she had approached him. “Back to business, though.”

“Ahh, I love business.”

“Why are you still following me? You said you just wanted to see if I was worth recruiting. We had a chat and a few beers, and I haven’t seen you since. So what’s the deal?”

“The _deal_ is that you went and signed up with a group of fanatical lunatics. The Brotherhood, Quinn? Really?”

For the first time since she had known him, Deacon’s voice was deadly serious. It was impossible to tell what he was feeling behind those sunglasses, but Quinn suspected he was frowning. She let out a noise that was a mixture of annoyance and weariness. How many more times did she have to explain this shit?

But an explanation wasn’t needed.

“We helped you crack a Courser chip. We smuggle synths out of the Institute all the time,” Deacon said, shaking his head. “If you wanted in, do you think we wouldn’t have found a way?”

“If you could get inside that easily, you would have done it by now,” Quinn retorted. “You can bring the synths out, sure, but I sure as hell don’t see you getting back in without the teleporter.” She massaged her temples, wincing. Her head was pounding, and the argument was doing nothing to help it. It seemed no matter what she did, whatever her intentions, there was someone stood waiting to oppose her. Why was it so hard just to get to her son? She didn’t need all this _baggage._

“The only reason we’re talking now,” Deacon said quietly, “is because you still have that special something that caught my eye the first time I met you. Sure, you’re rubbing shoulders with a wacky tin can and his equally fun-loving boss, but you’re still _you._ I saw you at The Slog. I saw how you treated the ghouls in Goodneighbor. And everyone saw what you just did for ol’ Valentine. You’ve made a mistake, that’s all. Leave the Brotherhood and come work for us instead. We need people like you.”

“I...” Quinn couldn’t deny that her discomfort with Maxson’s Brotherhood was growing by the day, but she found that the word Deacon wanted to hear was one she just couldn’t utter. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Is it because of what you were talking about this morning, or something else?”

“How did you-?” She stopped herself. This was Deacon. Of course he had heard earlier. “The former.”

“Even though you have your doubts?”

“Even though I have my doubts,” Quinn repeated. Despite the fact she couldn’t see his eyes, Deacon’s demeanour softened considerably.

“Quinn.” He was whispering now as he leaned towards her. “You know as well as I do that the Brotherhood hates synth sympathisers as much as synths. If you...” Deacon paused, and this time she could clearly see the frown written across his entire face. He was considering something. Considering her. After a long silence, he shook his head and straightened up. “So long as you don’t lose yourself to this shit, the offer to join us will still stand.”

Quinn nodded and he smiled, stretching his arms. The serious discussion was over, a distant memory that she wanted to file away and forget about. Would they really force her to choose? She didn’t know Deacon overly well, but he amused her all the same. She certainly didn’t want to hurt him. But if she went with the Railroad, there would be a risk to Danse...and the paladin himself would certainly never forgive her for abandoning him and the Brotherhood.

“Time to keep up appearances then.” The words cut through Quinn’s jumbled thoughts as Deacon tugged at his shirt, pulling it loose from his pants.

“What are you doing?”

“Old Carla thinks we went for some rough and tumble,” he said, unzipping his fly halfway down and then tilting his hat, “and I’d hate to disappoint.”

“Deacon, don’t you dare!”

But Deacon had already bolted back up the hill to Sanctuary, cackling as Quinn yelled a string of obscenities at his flight. She sprinted after him, determined to grab him and beat him to death with his own sunglasses, and had almost hooked her fingers on the back of his leather armour when she heard a settler cry out, their finger pointing to the horizon. Despite herself, Quinn turned to look, and was greeted with the most glorious sight that she had ever seen.

The hulking, misshapen monstrosity lumbered over the hill in the distance, a mass of scrap piled on top of what looked like a piece of an airplane wing, being pulled by two exhausted brahmin. The height of its peaks swaying to a fro with every step of its burdened charges, a large piece of cloth thrown over the mass of junk and tied down with rope.

Perched on top of the huge pile, wearing a shit-eating grin, was Hancock, his red coat flapping in the breeze as the procession drew nearer. Sat next to him, also dressed in red and reading a book, was Piper. She set it aside when Quinn called her name and waved. Quinn ran down to them, grinning widely, a feeling of joy rushing through her with such intensity that she nearly stumbled over in excitement.

The brahmin picked their way across the rotting bridge and slowly pulled their load up the hill. Quinn met them halfway, and when Hancock slid smoothly down the junk pile to the ground, she yanked him into a tight hug.

“Hey, easy now!” he said, though he seemed pleased. “Look who I picked up on the way past Diamond City. Good timing, eh?”

“Perfect timing,” beamed Quinn.

“He saved my feet, at least,” Piper interjected and grinned. She glanced around. “Where’s your friend?”

“Helping Sturges.” The idea of telling them what had happened with Nick made her skin crawl. She didn’t want them to know. She didn’t want them to know what Danse could have done. Was she protecting him, or protecting their opinion of him? Danse wouldn’t care if they didn’t like him, but for some reason, Quinn _did._ Gesturing towards the top of the hill, she said, “Come on. We’ll get this crap up there and give the brahmin some water. And then, Piper, you can have a catch-up with a certain rusty, old detective...”

* * *

Confusion.

It was not an emotion that came easily to Paladin Danse. He was sure of his place in the world and the path he would follow: everything for his brothers and sisters, everything for his cause, and everything for his team. There was no doubt in his mind that one day he would push himself beyond his limits and fall prey to the battlefield, but Danse wasn’t concerned. It was a good death; better than Cutler’s, and all the other men and women he had let down. Better than he deserved.

Yes, Danse knew his lot in life.

And yet as he worked on a small circuit board, while Sturges clattered around in the background, all he could think about was the standoff that had happened a few hours ago. It was stupid. He was a paladin of the Brotherhood and he shouldn't be allowing himself to be distracted this way; a clear head was essential for victory. Push past it. Move on. Do better.

But try as he might, Danse couldn't get the image of Quinn’s gun pointing at him out of his head. He _should_ have shot her for it; he would have been well within his rights -- she had threatened him and protected an enemy of the Brotherhood. And not just any enemy, but _the_ enemy -- the Institute was Elder Maxson’s latest point of focus. Had it been anyone else, Danse was certain he would have taken them down without a second thought, or at least dragged them back to the Prydwen for interrogation. Instead, he had backed off first.

Danse sighed and rubbed at his eyes. The tiredness wasn't helping and he glanced at his power armour. It stood in the corner, a dead husk, cracked open and left to rot. He couldn’t wear it if he wanted to do such intricate work, but he missed it all the same. The weight of it was a comfort, another layer between himself and the Commonwealth. Maybe he was an idiot for being here after all. Quinn had pointed a _gun_ at him, and now here he was, doing complicated wiring for a project she had deliberately kept secret from the Brotherhood when she knew it could have helped them.

Did Quinn really care about the Brotherhood at all? Or him? A few hours ago, he would have said yes without hesitation. Now, Danse wasn’t so sure. Perhaps the biggest issue was not even with Quinn herself, but with his own inability to read her. Every time he felt he understood her at last, she would change direction. She was possibly the most infuriating woman Danse had ever met; stubborn to a fault, an unruly temper, reckless – _oh yes, definitely reckless_ – argued every little thing with him, put emotion before duty, and was a borderline alcoholic. Everything that he hated about other people -- had hated about himself -- and yet with her, it was entirely forgivable. What worried him the most was that it wasn’t the first time he’d had these strange, conflicting feelings.

It had been his _duty_ to shoot her. Danse had known that from the moment Quinn had stepped in front of the synth, from the moment she had turned against him, but he had held back. Listened to her, despite himself. And then right at the crucial moment, Danse had noticed something. Quinn’s rifle had been pointed at his chest. Not his exposed, helmetless head -- his armour plated _chest_. She’d had no intention of causing him harm, whether she knew it or not. That had been the moment he’d lowered his gun.

God, she confused the hell out of him.

Danse sighed, letting the memory drop away as he frowned at the jumble of wires in his hands. Had it been the right choice? He felt angry and muddled about the whole situation; could barely think straight, could barely understand why he had ignored his training so thoroughly.

_“Don’t even think about it, you tab-dodging molerat!”_

Quinn’s shriek broke through his thoughts like a super mutant with a sledgehammer. Danse abandoned the wires and strode from the workbench to the window, watching the scene unfold. Even though he still felt irritated with her, it was entertaining to see her screaming bloody murder at someone who wasn’t him. Not that the recipient seemed bothered -- on the contrary, he was grinning widely at her. Danse watched for a few seconds, his interest waning; he was about to return to his work when the leathery old trader woman said something that made his heart sink.

“If you two want to go fuck in the bushes for five minutes, I don’t give a shit. Just don’t come over here making a scene like you wanted him for something else.”

What did she mean by that? An odd feeling rushed over him and he felt his fingers tighten on the window frame as he observed Quinn with the stranger. Had something happened between them? When? Had it been serious? Why was he smirking at her like that? Were they going to…?

Danse felt his stomach tighten as the mercenary grabbed her hand. His face was burning, his heart hammering against his chest as he watched him tug her away. Quinn was spluttering denials -- she had been caught out after all -- but she wasn’t resisting the stranger. And he was still _smirking_.

“Come on, babe,” the mercenary said, and he leaned over, hitting her backside with the palm of his hand.

Maybe it was Quinn’s reaction -- a yell of anger, the look she gave the stranger, or any other part of her body language that screamed displeasure -- or the fact he could hear the painful noise all the way from where he was. Whatever the reason, Danse saw red.

“Where are you going?” Sturges asked, looking up from his own workbench and frowning.

Danse blinked, realising he had strode halfway across the room, his hand actually on the door frame that led to the outside. He hadn’t even put his power armour back on. With mounting unease, he glanced back at Sturges and then to the window where he had been stood moments before. In the distance he could see the mercenary, still pulling Quinn down the hill and towards an old house. The uncomfortable flipping sensation in his stomach was back, intensifying as the questions over Quinn and the stranger returned with a vengeance. Why had that made him so angry? Quinn was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

Danse turned away and returned to his workbench, muttering a weak excuse at Sturges as he picked up the piece he had been working on. His mind was filled with images of the scene outside, of them holding hands, of the mercenary’s actions. The mere thought of it was agitating him, and Danse found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. _Why did it bother him so much?_

Like a vault door rolling into place, realisation came to Danse with a slow, heavy clunk. He dropped the circuitry he had been fiddling with, a sudden heat racing up his cheeks as he stared blankly at the dirty wall in front of him. He was her sponsor; it was _wrong._ And yet…

Danse glanced over his shoulder; she was just visible on the horizon, and he felt his stomach flip again.

“Shit.”

* * *

Time slipped through Quinn’s fingers like sand as scrap and junk trickled through the workshop, slowly changing into a construction that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a science fiction movie. An army of generators hummed in front of her, power coursing through them, ready to be unleashed. The sight of it took Quinn’s breath away.

Sturges was bent over a console, its front panel open as he rooted through a technicolor nest of wires and circuit boards. Danse was stood a little further away, inspecting the wires that hooked up the generators to each other and the teleporter. Sturges closed the panel, pressed a few buttons, and then stepped back as the machine flared to life, light surging from the towering platform in the centre.

Her nerves were getting the best of her again. Quinn approached it apprehensively, feeling the heat roll off the teleporter, beckoning her forward. She quickly ran over the plan in her head again, the plan she had told the others earlier while the final touches had been put in place. Leave her armour behind, for starters. Stealth would be key here, and once she made it there, hiding would probably be her best option, unless a firing squad was waiting on the other side. If she survived, she must find Shaun and leave by any means necessary, hopefully the way she had come in.

There were secondary missions too. Promises she had made to get the information she needed. Quinn had only some intention of keeping them: the data hack for Sturges and the package for Virgil. Part of her felt guilty that she would only fulfil these if it was convenient to her, but she held true to what she had told Danse earlier.

Shaun came first.

Quinn turned and saw everyone looking at her; Sturges and some of the other settlers seemed interested, but the rest of them --  Danse and Nick, in particular -- looked sick with worry. Nick’s face was almost perfectly blank, but his arms were crossed tight against his chest. Danse, on the other hand, was wearing a frown and hadn’t climbed back into his armour yet. That alone said something had him worked up. He couldn’t even look at her properly. Quinn swallowed. She had waited so long for this moment, but now it was here, she didn’t know what to do. What would she see on the other side? Would she even survive the journey? Was this the right decision? She would soon find out.

Swallowing her fear, she gave a shaky smile to her friends. “Thank you, everyone. Thank you for all the help you’ve given me.”

There was a mixture of various _“you’re welcome”_ from the rabble that stood before her, some more enthusiastic than others. Danse said nothing, still not meeting her eye. No. She couldn’t leave like this. Not with an argument. Not when she might…

“Danse,” Quinn said, clearing her throat, painfully aware that everyone had turned to stare at the paladin instead. Her voice felt like razor blades. He finally looked at her, and her words became stuck. Danse looked pale and nervous, jaw clenched, eyebrows knotted tightly together, and staring at her with such intensity that, for a moment, she forgot where she was. It was just the two of them, stood either side of a gaping void. She’d never seen him like this before.

With what seemed like a great effort, Danse smiled. “Stay safe, soldier.”

“Christ, will you two get a room?” Hancock chipped in. Danse scowled deeply, but everyone else laughed. Even the corners of Quinn’s mouth twitched, though the twisting sensation in her stomach quickly made it fade.

“I’ll come back,” she said, once the laughter died down. “As soon as I can, I’ll be back. I’ll try and teleport back here, if I’m able. If not...I’ll walk it.”

There seemed little else she could say. It was time to go. With a deep breath, Quinn faced the teleporter once more, the gale it was creating whipping through her hair and stinging her eyes.

_I’m going to die. But if I’m going to die, Nate will be with me at least._

Her fingers scrambled for the tape player on her Pip-Boy, and her husband’s voice drifted out from her wrist. She listened as she edged closer to the roiling heat and light, terror crackling through every inch of her body as her hair stood on end with static. Her heart crashed repeatedly against her chest, fighting to escape, and sweat trickled down her cheeks as she shook like a leaf, her breath coming hard and fast.

_“Bye honey. We love you.”_

Quinn stepped into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I got the characterisation of Deacon right. I never had him as a companion, so I had to do a lot of research, as well as getting actual Deacon fans check over my work to make sure it was right. They said it was.
> 
> Also, I imagine Danse as being the kind of guy who only swears when something really pisses him off or when something really surprises/shocks him. The dork.
> 
> Thank you to ravenbohique , mayorjohnhardcock , normangayden , solstheimart, critrawkets, borderlineslacktivist , and pixel-shiv for their general beta help and/or Deacon characterisation help. Seriously. Thank you.
> 
> I've also been planning out this chapter for about a month, right since the start of the fic. I really hope you enjoyed it.


	15. Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am super excited for you guys to read this chapter. I have had it in my head (and have been building up to it) from the very beginning, and I really hope you like it. :)
> 
> WARNING: Spoilers for the main story are hinted at here. After this chapter, this fic will contain definite spoilers for Fallout 4.

The void yawned beneath her, hungry and waiting.

It was a peculiar feeling, Quinn decided, to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Would existence be offended by her? Would it care? Would it even notice at all?

Her body grew numb as the landscape – choked and saturated by nothing – shifted between a dazzling black and a deep white. Or was it the other way around? Quinn frowned as the colours melted together into a blur that pushed down on her with infinite weight. And yet she floated, unbound and lost in the vastness of...of what?

_What is this?_

A blast of energy surged through a small, circular room, crackling up the walls and streaking along the floor in jagged bolts. And then Quinn was _there_.

Quinn hadn’t expected to be _there_. Truth be told, she hadn’t known what to expect, but the idea of suddenly being flung forward into an entirely new state of _there_ without any actual force was something time and space wasn’t quite prepared for. Apparently neither was Quinn; her body braced for an impact that had no intention of existing and she went skidding along the floor.

Quinn clamped down on the scream of shock with everything she had – her gun flew away from her with a loud clatter, and there was a bang as she hit the ground, followed quickly by a stream of barely coherent swearwords. She lay there for a moment, panting and shaking as the adrenaline worked its way through her, leaving just as quickly as it came. After a few seconds, the haze cleared and a strange, elated terror bubbled up from the pit of her stomach, filling every crevice of her body. She was in the Institute. She had _survived_.

_My gun? Where the hell is my gun?_ Quinn thought, frantically scanning the area for it. It lay in the next room, about three feet away, the low lighting reflecting dully off its tarnished casing. With a grunt, Quinn pulled herself onto her hands and knees and crawled forward, scooping up her precious weapon and holding it aloft.

The room was devoid of any life, but full of glossy furniture and several computer consoles; they were not as grand or as advanced as she had anticipated, and certainly wouldn't look out of place in the wasteland. The area was dark, save for a row of dim lights that gave a slight glow to the walls and floor -- an eerie companion to the silence.

This was the thing that unnerved Quinn the most. It occurred to her that she had never heard true quiet until this moment. The Commonwealth was in a constant state of chaos, where a rare place of peace was still plagued by bustle and ambient danger. Even the quiet of the pre-war countryside - or the churches and libraries - paled in comparison; some form of distant noise could always be heard. But here, there was nothing.

_At least they weren’t expecting me_ , Quinn mused as she climbed to her feet and edged forward, scanning through the gloom. _If they had, I would be dead by now._

She shot the computer console a quick look and shrugged. If the most scientifically advanced organisation in the wasteland hadn’t been expecting intruders, maybe they wouldn’t be expecting someone to be snooping on their computers either. Quinn pulled the device out of her pocket and set it down on the side while she tapped away. As she had suspected, they hadn’t bothered to tighten up the security on it, and soon she had found where Sturges wanted her to go. The device clicked into the computer with ease, and within minutes it began bleeping, demanding to be returned to her pocket.

Quinn complied and then glanced down the corridor, her heart in her throat. She stepped forward, and a pleasant voice, rich and low, rang out from the intercom system. Its refined quality threw her off - despite being in the lair of the Commonwealth’s bogeyman, it wouldn’t have sounded out of place at a pre-war hospital.

_“Hello. I wondered if you might make it here - you’re quite resourceful. I’m known as Father...the Institute is under my guidance. I know why you’re here. I’d like to discuss things with you, face to face. Please, step into the elevator.”_

_Step into the elevator._ It had to be a trap, but as Quinn moved into the next room, she could see no other way forward. There was only one other door, and it was securely locked. Chewing her lip, she glanced at the elevator - it was beautiful, a glass cylinder with what looked like a DNA helix pattern emblazoned on it. Gun raised, Quinn stepped inside and hit the button. As she began to move down, the man - Father, or whatever his name was - spoke again:

_“I can only imagine what you’ve heard. What you think of us. I’d like to show you that you may have...the wrong impression.”_

Bars of light flickered past in the dark elevator shaft while the man paused. If Quinn hadn’t been so wound up, she would have rolled her eyes. He clearly had a love for the dramatic. She didn’t care. She was only here for-

_“Welcome to the Institute.”_

The dark tunnel opened out into a wide, gleaming facility. It stretched out below her, a huge dome filled with such polished perfection; it took Quinn’s breath away. The ceiling was the first thing she noticed, a curved sheet of metal with a spattering of white lights across it, like the night sky of centuries past, captured in an old black and white photograph.

Great pillars - no, towers - ran all the way from the top to the bottom, uniform in appearance, the repeating balconies and furniture suggesting apartments or offices. Lit up signs of different colours were hanging from the vast walls in equally divided sections, and as Quinn drew closer to the ground, she saw the floor was glass plating overlaying clear water. Metal lay on top of this glass, framing each panel in a precise, symmetrical pattern. Scientists - or at least men and women in clean, white outfits - walked by, either oblivious as they talked amongst themselves, or deliberately ignoring her presence.

_“This is the reality of the Institute; this place, these people, the work we do: for over a hundred years we’ve dedicated ourselves to humanity’s survival. Decades of research, countless experiments and trials, a shared vision of how science can help shape the future. It has never been easy-”_

The voice had been babbling on as Quinn had stared out at the structures with wonder. Then she lost sight of it all as the elevator went through the ground floor and into the levels below.

_“-our actions are often misinterpreted by those above ground. Some day perhaps we can show them what we’ve accomplished. But for now, we must remain underground.”_

The elevator slowed to a smooth halt, and the glass doors opened. The corridor wasn’t as glossy as the area above. It was still clean by pre-war standards, and pristine by the wasteland’s, but deliberately less impressive. It spoke of function, not form; bare metal walls painted grey with highlights of yellow, and exposed pipes and machinery casing on display.

_“There’s too much at stake here to risk it all. As you’ve seen, things above are...unstable.”_

_God, he likes to talk_ , Quinn thought to herself, her palms sweating as she clutched tightly at her rifle. She would put a bullet in the fucker’s head regardless of whether she had Shaun with her or not; this _Father_ needed to pay for what he had done to her family, and his death could ensure she wasn’t followed once she escaped with her son. She followed the yellow and grey corridors before reaching another elevator. Like the corridor, it was less showy than the previous elevator, its purpose decidedly practical. Quinn stepped inside and hit the button with a loud _click._

_“I’d like to talk to you about what we can do for everyone. But that can wait. You are here for a specific...very personal reason.”_

_Damn right I am, you sonovabitch._

The elevator opened. This room was also grey and yellow, a door visible from where she stood, a console full of red and yellow buttons to the left of it. With steely determination, Quinn checked her gun was loaded and ready to use, and then moved on. But as she stepped into the room, she saw the door was connected to what looked like a glass cell, and inside was…

_Shaun._

_“You are here for your son.”_

Quinn froze. Her baby. Her little boy; the spitting image of Nate. All other thoughts left her head as the world stopped, ice flooding into her veins. He was here. He was _safe._ Losing all sense of a rational plan, Quinn sprinted forward, jabbing at the control panel for the door. It wouldn’t open. A great, desperate longing was building up inside her, trying to claw its way out towards the child. Crying out in frustration, Quinn ran to the glass and began banging on it, but it didn’t so much as move, even when she hit it with the butt of her rifle.

Shaun was looking at her, wide-eyed and frightened, backing away. It didn’t matter. She could explain in time. She could _explain._

“Shaun!” she screamed, dropping her weapon to the floor and beating frantically on the glass with her fists, trying to push aside thoughts of the vault and of Nate. “Shaun, it’s me! _Shaun!”_

* * *

“Hey there, crew cut.”

Danse stopped, his hand hovering over the screwdriver Sturges had lent him. Every muscle in his body tensed; it seemed even at night he couldn’t escape from being provoked. This was the second day of hell now. Two days of waiting for Quinn to return, two days of the ghoul testing his patience with his childish rhetoric of ‘freedom’ and near constant goading. Two days of the Brotherhood’s name being openly mocked in front of him. He was doing his best to avoid a confrontation, but whatever he said to Hancock seemed only to fuel him further. Danse was sick of it.

The trouble had begun when the ghoul had found out about his altercation with the synth. Danse had thought no more of it – he had promised Quinn he would trust her, and he had stuck to his word – but Hancock seemed to take some sort of personal affront to the incident, despite the fact he had kept as far away from the synth as possible.

_“What’s your problem with Valentine?”_ the ghoul had said. _“What’s he ever done to you?”_

_“He’s a freak of nature, just like you,”_ Danse had snapped back. The insult had come from nowhere. Something about the ghoul just rubbed him the wrong way – coupled with Quinn’s recent departure and his own confused feelings, he’d had little energy to mask his distaste.

Upon reflection, perhaps he shouldn’t have called the ghoul a freak. But then again, Danse wasn’t the kind of man to feign tolerance or friendship. If he didn’t like someone or something, he would not hide it when pressed.

“Go away,” Danse said now, not bothering to turn around as his fingers closed around the screwdriver. He’d seen Hancock twirl his knife with surprising ease; Danse’s rifle was not at hand, and he was not in his armour. Better to have _something_ than to wait like a brahmin for slaughter.

“Now that’s not very nice,” the ghoul sneered. “Can’t a guy just come and talk to his favourite Brotherhood drone? I just want to see what makes you tick.”

Hancock’s voice needled Danse in ways he never could have imagined, and he suspected the ghoul knew this. Gritting his teeth, Danse adjusted the light hanging next to the power armour station and focused on the hole in Quinn’s armour – courtesy of the deathclaw – and set about removing the metal plating. It would probably need replacing entirely, but Quinn had accumulated plenty of scrap to deal with the issue.

“Come on, _Paladin.”_ Hancock moved into the workshop and sat on a nearby toolbox tower, propping his boots up onto the arm of Quinn’s stationary armour, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re out here representing the Brotherhood. I thought you wanted to make a good impression to all us lesser beings. Talk to me, man to man.”

Danse firmly pushed Hancock’s feet away, so that the ghoul nearly fell off his perch as his heels slammed back down into the box.

“You’re no man,” Danse shot at him before he could stop himself. The ghoul had managed to get another rise out of him. _Again._

Hancock looked up at him, his black eyes gleaming with triumph. “Oh, I don’t know. I think those who have taken a trip to my bedroom would disagree.”

Danse made a noise of disgust, but didn’t comment, forcing himself to return to his work. His head was pounding with rage, his hands trembling so much he could barely remove the armour plate. Personal insults he could handle, but one more quip about the Brotherhood, just _one..._

“What’s your problem with ghouls?” Hancock asked, running his fingernail down the edge of his blade in a nonchalant manner. He seemed unconcerned with Danse’s rising annoyance.

Danse could see him playing with his knife out of the corner of his eye, and tightened his grip on his screwdriver. “Why does it matter? I’ve done my best to keep out of your way.”

“Nothing quite beats the satisfaction of pissing off a bigot.”

There was a smugness to Hancock that Danse didn’t like, but he liked being called a bigot a lot less. It made him think far too much of Quinn at the Slog, eyes blazing as she shouted him down and denounced him in front of an eager crowd.

“I see ghouls for what they are: a threat waiting to happen. You’ve been mutated into something past the point of humanity but without the good decency to die first.”

“Ooh, that’s a real doozy, that one,” Hancock cackled, slapping his knee. “Do you practice that in front of your mirror every day before you suit up?”

“Are you honestly unconcerned about the chance of turning feral?”

The question clearly caught Hancock by surprise, as he quickly stopped laughing.

“No,” Hancock snapped, flicking his knife between his fingers more quickly now. “And what would you care? You and your friends think you have a right over ordinary folk, but you don’t really give a shit.”

“People are foolhardy, selfish, and stupid,” Danse said, pleased that he had hit the ghoul so close to home. “We protect them from themselves.”

Hancock snorted and rolled his eyes. “People aren’t kids that need babysitting by a bunch of self-important assholes.” He slipped off the box and began pacing up and down the workshop. “Besides, no one fucking asked for your help. What the fuck would you or any of your _brothers_ know about scraping out a living from the dirt?”

Danse threw the screwdriver down with a bang, and for a moment, there was delight on Hancock’s face as he took the bait. He didn’t care. The glee slipped away from the freak the second Danse spoke. “I’d done more scraping in the dirt by the time I was ten years old than you’ve done in your whole life.”

“You think you’ve had a harder time than a _ghoul_?” Hancock asked incredulously, flicking the knife menacingly as Danse loomed over him.

“What _I_ think is that you’re a scumbag who got lucky with a cushy job in a cesspool town,” Danse spat. His temper, which rarely reared its ugly head, was screaming at him, begging him to grab Hancock by the front of his ridiculous clothes and crack him across the jaw. Only the thought of what Quinn would say if he attacked one of her friends held him back.

“It’s easy to be idealistic ‘for the people,’ but _we_ make the hard judgement calls,” Danse continued, taking a step forward. He had hoped to intimidate the ghoul, but Hancock stood his ground, glaring. Danse shook his head. “You’re just another corrupt figurehead with no care or responsibility for anyone but yourself-”

Hancock pointed his blade at Danse, indignation etched into every inch of his decaying features as he snarled, “One thing I _ain’t_ is a figurehead. I bled for my town when I took over, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”

“That’s debateable,” Danse retorted. “What would a self-serving junkie know about lives riding on your every decision?”

“I’m responsible for everyone in Goodneighbor, you _asshole_.”

Danse gave a barking laugh. Even to his own ears it sounded odd, but he paid it no attention. After two days of biting his tongue for Quinn, he’d had enough. Finally, he had struck a nerve, and by god he was going to press on it. With a surge of bitter satisfaction, Danse launched into his next line of attack, “And you do a _stellar_ job of it. Drug addicts everywhere, criminals running rampant-”

“It ain’t perfect, but at least folks think for themselves. You don’t like it? Tough shit. That’s how we live and that’s how we like it.”

“You’re letting them slowly kill themselves.”

“They’re _free!”_

“They’re deluded, and _so are you!”_

“Enough!” a new voice bellowed.

Danse blinked, becoming aware that he was almost nose-to-nose cavity with the ghoul. Hancock seemed equally surprised, and they turned to see Nick Valentine, hands on hips, glaring at them. He looked from one guilty face to the other, and Danse had a sudden, strange feeling that he was a child about to be told off by a parent.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Nick said sharply, his yellow eyes blazing in the dark. Both ghoul and paladin opened their mouths to protest, but Nick cut them off with, “Button it!”

Danse flinched. That one had been a common utterance of Cutler’s, along with a myriad of other quirky pre-war sayings, thanks to a book he had found during their training. Danse had dismissed it as junk, but Cutler had lapped it up, rereading it over and over until he knew it word for word. Slowly, but surely, the peculiar little phrases had bled into his everyday talk. Hearing it now was like seeing Cutler’s ghost, and Danse found himself stunned into silence.

Nick paused before speaking again. “If you two want to want to tear a strip off of each other, be my guest.” He folded his arms. “But do it in your _own_ time. Not at night, when folk are trying to sleep. And certainly not when we’re waiting for Quinn to return with her son. That kid will have been through hell -- no, in fact, _both_ of them will. And the last thing they need is to come back here and find you two idiots yelling at each other. _So knock it off!”_

The synth’s scowl was so sharp, Danse could feel it cutting into him despite the distance between them. As much as he loathed to admit it, the thing was right - not that he would ever say that out loud, and certainly not within earshot of the two freaks. He rubbed the back of his head, feeling the fight drain out of him, fatigue and worry taking over. Where was Quinn? Had something happened at the Institute? He should have been there to help her. He should have _insisted_ -

The hairs on Danse’s neck stood on end, and he straightened up as the air became thick and greasy, crackling with energy. Something was coming. The synth and the ghoul had grown still too, glancing around the area, confusion clear on their faces. Danse caught their eyes, and at once, they all _knew._

A crack like an electronic gunshot rang out, reverberating through the settlement with a thrumming aftershock that rippled and clawed its way over the landscape. Without so much as a word to each other, the three of them tore around the corner to the burnt out teleporter...and there she was.

_Quinn._

It was as if someone had plunged him into a vat of boiling water -- heat shot up through him, from his toes right to the tips of his ears. Danse was filled with an urge to grab hold of her, pull her away from that infernal death trap, and make her promise never to…

His thoughts trailed away from him, and he found his body slowing down of its own accord. Nick and Hancock were doing the same. Something was wrong. Something was _terribly_ wrong.

Quinn stood alone on the blackened platform, rigid and looking straight ahead. If she saw the three figures in front of her, she made no indication of it. In her hand she held her beloved rifle, but loosely, as if she was barely conscious of its presence. Quinn swayed on the spot with an unreadable expression -- that concerned Danse most of all. No matter what mood she had been in, whether grief-stricken or angry or happy, he had always been able to tell. Now she seemed...lost. The Institute had returned an empty shell.

It was Nick that broke the disturbing quiet.

“Quinn,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper, “where’s Shaun?”

At the mention of Shaun’s name, life flooded into Quinn’s eyes, but it was nothing but a dull echo; the spark was gone, replaced by a cold, empty sheen that simply imitated the vigour they had once held. She stared at them, her barren features riddled with shock as her mouth traced the word _“Shaun.”_

The gun tumbled to the ground as her hands flew to her head, fingers tearing at her hair, a chilling howl leaving her lips. Danse barely had time to register it before Quinn crumpled, anguish cascading from her and crashing down onto them as she screamed and screamed and...

He was at her side with no memory of moving. All that mattered was being there and stopping the hurt. Her shrieks were ripping through him, the way her nails were ripping through the skin of her cheeks, blood trickling down in thin lines and smearing across her pale complexion. Danse tried to grab her hands, but as he reached for her, she pulled away, a frightening stillness falling over her.

He glanced at the synth and the ghoul; he didn’t care what they were, he just needed to know if they could help, but they looked just as alarmed as he felt. Dragging his attention back to Quinn, he noticed her gaze fixed on something behind him, and turned to see what it was.

In the distance, surrounded by trimmed bushes and empty flower beds, was Quinn’s old house.

She had pointed it out to him when they had first arrived, in an attempt to distract him from his endless questions about the teleporter. It had been left untouched, Quinn had told him, as a tribute to all she had lost: a memorial. He had nodded, barely giving the run-down old wreck a second glance, and then continued on with his gripe.

_I’m an idiot,_ he thought. _It was clearly important to her._

Quinn was staring at it now, wearing a wide-eyed, crazed expression. Every muscle in her body appeared to tense as her breathing quickened, patches of colour bursting onto her cheeks.

With a speed that took him by surprise, Quinn leapt to her feet and launched herself forward, screaming again. But this time there was no grief; it was a frenzied, violent battle cry. She wrestled with the dials of the Pip-Boy, and the holotape compartment popped open, exposing the tape inside. Quinn wrenched it out and hurled it down the street with a strangled sob. A piece of its plastic casing chipped off as it bounced away with a clatter into the darkness, but Quinn didn’t so much as look at it as she sprinted towards her crumbling home.

_Was that…?_

He could think about it later. Danse scrambled up and tore after her, outstripping both Nick and Hancock as he followed her into the house.

The interior was a whirlwind of destruction, and at its centre was Quinn. Furniture flew as she kicked at it, and every fragile, material survivor of the bombs quickly fell prey to her wrath. Danse realised -- with an edge of panic -- that she had picked up her gun again in her flight. He needn't have worried. Quinn took it like a baseball bat and started clubbing everything in sight, sending a vase sailing past Danse’s head as he crossed over the threshold.

“Quinn!” he shouted, striding across to her, but Quinn simply spun on the spot and threw the rifle at him as well. Danse ducked and felt the barrel catch the fabric of his uniform hood, before it crashed straight into the tarnished television set behind him. Quinn didn’t seem to care or even notice. When Danse looked up, he caught her running into a room at the other end of the house, and quickly pursued, barely aware of the footsteps of the others as they caught up. As he reached the room, another object -- a child’s toy -- narrowly missed him, hitting the door frame and pinging off it like a bullet. There was a dull thud and a _“Fuck!”_ from somewhere behind him, but Danse paid it little mind. Quinn had turned her rage onto the blue crib, and all at once she seemed to explode.

Whatever Danse had thought her anger had been, it paled into comparison to _this_. She was incensed, throwing everything she had at the small cot with the peeling paint. Or she would have done, if Danse hadn’t grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Quinn ignored his grip, her arms and legs lashing out at the little piece of furniture with such fury that he found himself struggling to keep hold of her. With a grunt of effort, he managed to lay his other hand on her shoulder, and dragged her around to face him.

Snarling, she shoved him. Danse had expected her to simply bounce off him, but to his shock, he actually gave a slight stagger. He had made up his mind by the time Quinn had whirled back around, ready to continue her assault. Whatever had happened, he suspected she would be heartbroken if the crib was destroyed. Praying he wouldn’t hurt her in the process, Danse flung himself at her, wrapped his fingers around each of her arms, and then yanked her back so hard she was nearly pulled off her feet.

Whether through sheer determination or his reluctance to hold her too tightly, Quinn wriggled free and whipped around to face him; all trace of humanity had left her, replaced with something wild -- something _feral_. His hands darted out again and clamped down on her, pinning her in place, but Quinn had other ideas. Her shoulder smashed into his chest, and he finally lost his balance, both of them toppling backwards into a corner of the room.

The wind was knocked out of him as she crashed down, and Danse found himself noiselessly gasping for air while his body processed the blow. When his breath came back, and he sat coughing and shuddering on the floor, he realised that Quinn hadn’t moved. Danse glanced down at her to find her almost splayed out on top of him, her head on his chest, her frame limp. Panic shot through him, and he tried to sit up, ignoring the pain that bit into his bruised back and limbs -- but as he moved, so did she, her legs drawing up to her chest as her arms slid around his middle, squeezing him.

There was a lump in Danse’s throat. This was...unsettling. With an air of uncertainty, he said, “Quinn?”

Quinn didn’t answer, but she started to shake. The cries were quiet at first, muffled by his body, but once she took a ragged breath, the racking sobs prevailed, filling the room with her utter agony. Danse stared at her, frozen on the spot. This was nothing like Haylen; holding her for a few minutes wouldn’t fix this wound. He glanced up at Hancock and Nick with wide-eyed horror, silently begging them for help. They looked down at him, equally rattled; Nick had his arms folded again, while Hancock chewed his tongue, one hand clamped over his eye.

“I think,” Nick said slowly over Quinn’s wails, “that we best leave you to it.”

_“What?”_ both Hancock and Danse hissed at once.

“You think I’m just going to-” Hancock began, moving his hand away to reveal a cut beneath his eye. He stopped at the look on Nick’s face.

“You’re damn right you are,” Nick replied. “We can’t help her right now, and I think the less people that crowd her, the better.” Nick nodded towards the holes in the walls of the house, where disgruntled settlers were gathering around to see what the commotion was.

As if on cue, Preston and Piper rushed into the room, both of them armed and ready for a fight. Preston halted so suddenly that Piper ran into him, nearly knocking him over. She peered around Preston and gawped at Quinn, before turning a livid eye on Danse.

“What the hell did you _do?”_

Piper hadn’t been too impressed at the tale of his reaction to Nick either, but she had at least been courteous enough to avoid him. Now, however, it seemed she was willing to let it taint her judgement. Danse opened his mouth to argue, but Nick cut across him.

“Out.” The synth pointed to the door and glared. “Preston. Piper. Hancock. _Out._ Go clear the crowd away. The show’s over.”

Both Piper and Hancock burst into protests, drowning Nick out, and soon all of them stood in a circle, arguing.

“If you think I'm just leaving her here-”

“The General needs space-”

“Look at him! He's no idea what he's doing!”

“-have to drag me out!”

“He's a soldier! He’ll know how to treat shock-”

“-fuckin’ Brotherhood don't know shit!”

Danse watched from the floor; the volume was rising with their tempers, and he could feel his own urge to yell bubbling up. For Quinn’s sake, he didn't want to be left alone with her, but even _he_ could sense the noise was upsetting her. Her shaking was growing steadily more violent, her grip on him becoming painful, but using his training to shout them down would not help matters.

_What the hell was he supposed to do?_

It was all well and good knowing about ‘shock,’ but this was far beyond shock, far beyond _anything_ he felt capable of handling. There had only been one other time that he’d seen her so far over the edge, and he wasn’t even sure how much he had helped her then. But it was worth a try. With the awkwardness mounting inside him, Danse wrapped his arms around her as he bowed his head, reciting the mantra of the vault.

“Quinn,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the bickering, but quiet enough so as not to startle her. “Quinn, you're safe. You're here with me, Danse. And Piper and Preston, and…” he paused, twisting his mouth with distaste. They were her friends. He could put aside his revulsion for now. “...and Hancock and Nick.” His palm gently rubbed her back, trying to pull her away from wherever she had gone, while the other arm was around her waist, holding her to him. He continued to talk, a constant stream of grounding and reassurance, unaware that the argument in front of him was slowly winding down.

It was Piper who saw it first, her anger dying in her throat. Nick followed her line of sight and stopped talking, followed shortly by Preston. Hancock was last, his indignation seeping away with a mumbled, “What are you look…?”

Danse noticed none of this, focusing entirely on Quinn. Perhaps it was his imagination, but her shudders seemed to have lessened, her crying reduced to the occasional whimper. He frowned, his ears becoming attuned to the new quiet, and looked up. All four of Quinn’s friends were staring at him. A deep flush crept up his cheeks, and he suddenly felt foolish. This was stupid. He wasn't the right person to help her - he couldn't even help himself these days. Better for Piper or Preston to take over and do a better job of it.

And yet Danse found he couldn't bring himself to let her go.

“Well, I'll be damned,” croaked Hancock. “You had it in you after all, tin can.”

“I think,” said Preston in a slow, careful voice, “that the best thing we can do now is give the General some privacy. Come on.”

Piper and Hancock glanced at each other. A series of unspoken words passed between them, before Piper sighed, slumping on the spot.

“Alright,” she said, shaking her head. She stepped forward and crouched down, moving a piece of hair out of Quinn’s face and tucking it behind her ear. “We’ll talk in the morning, Blue, okay?”

Quinn didn’t respond.

Piper drew back and left with Preston, hunched and small, but Hancock remained, his withered face drawn into a tight scowl. He was playing with the knife again, the blade flowing over his fingers as he looked pointedly at Danse, conflict rippling through his features. Then he stopped, the tension leaving him, and nodded, before following the other two out.

Nick watched Quinn for a second and then directed his gaze at Danse. “I’ll get you two some blankets so she doesn’t get too cold.” When Danse nodded mutedly, Nick left the room.

It was just Danse and Quinn now.

He took the opportunity to study her, his hands gently patting up and down her body, checking for injuries. There were none. Examining her face revealed nothing either, though Danse made note of the dark shadows under her eyes and the smears of blood from where she had scratched herself. With any luck, the cuts wouldn’t scar; they weren’t particularly deep. He went to trace them with his fingers, but then withdrew.

_Inappropriate._

If anyone from the Brotherhood saw them now...Danse squirmed at the thought. He could not ignore the fact that although Quinn was having some sort of breakdown, although he was responsible for her well-being, as a friend and a mentor...a small part of him enjoyed having her this close. The disgust he felt towards himself was almost overwhelming.

Danse stared blankly at the wall, heart racing; was this right? Was this what she wanted? Truth be told, it didn’t look like she was in any sort of shape to want anything, but... _she_ had clung to him. Was that from desperation or something else? Perhaps he just wanted to justify his improper behaviour rather than accept it like a man.

Nick returned with an armful of blankets just as Danse heard Piper's voice in the distance giving the settlers an earful, telling them to go back to their beds.

“Feisty, isn’t she?” Nick said. His hat was set aside as he knelt down and threw several of the sheets over Danse and Quinn. He tucked the blankets around them, taking care to keep her head uncovered, leaving Danse’s upper body exposed. Nick considered this and then looked at Danse. “Lean forward.”

Danse complied, trying not to disturb Quinn too much as she snuffled in his arms. Nick put his hat back on as he stood and picked up another couple of blankets, draping them around Danse’s shoulders and neck. When the paladin leaned back again, he felt much warmer.

“...Why?” It was all he could manage.

“It’s a cold night,” Nick replied with a shrug. “You’re an ass, but you care about her. And she clearly cares about you. That’s good enough for me. Look after her. I’ll check in every hour or so to make sure you’re both alright.”

He left without another word.

Danse stared after him - no, _it_ \- thoroughly confused. That was not how machines were supposed to act. Obviously it was just a way to try and gain his trust. _Well, it won’t work on me._ He scowled, irritated, and then sighed, watching Quinn. With the addition of the blankets, she had settled down almost completely, her anguish reduced to nothing but a few incoherent mumbles. God, he wished he could help her.

“Quinn…” There were so many things Danse wanted to say, but didn’t know how. They were either beyond his ability or his own comprehension. He knew he felt _something_ for her, but exactly what, he didn’t know. It was a turmoil he’d never experienced before: a happiness that also troubled him deeply. He shook his head and mumbled, “I’m here for you.”

Quinn didn’t answer, but he felt her fingers dig in slightly as she moved closer into him. She was quiet now, her breathing moving with his as they sat in silence, and he allowed himself to be immersed in her warmth. That same infectious calm he felt in Goodneighbor was back, his mind swimming with images where they stayed like this for hours, no heartache involved. Just them and a peaceful moment together.

With another sigh, Danse forced his body to relax and laid his head back against the wall.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to fallendawn, ravenbohique, critrawkets, and synthbutts (all on tumblr), and waiting4morning (on FFnet) for their invaluable beta help.
> 
> Also, I read a thing on tumblr somewhere, and people in it were like "I don't want to list off too many things that I liked about a fic in case the author thinks I'm weird."
> 
> Guys. GUYS. Seriously. Feedback is my lifeblood. If I were a dragon, I would make feedback my treasure hoard. If you have anything you want to say about my writing, good or bad, tell me! Theories about what will happen? Tell me! Feelings about a particular thing that happened, or a particular event, or a particular character?
> 
> TELL ME. :D
> 
> (thought something was bad about the fic? DEFINITELY TELL ME!!)
> 
> You could write me a goddamn essay and I wouldn't think you were weird. Every time I get a review, I read it over and over because "Oh my god someone took the time to write and tell me what they thought about my story."
> 
> Honestly, if you want to tell me something, then tell me something. I will never think it is bad. Every comment makes my day! And I read every. Single. One. :)
> 
> (Also, do you guys want me to reply to your reviews? I didn't want to pester any of you, but hey, maybe you'd like to hear back from me!)


	16. The Father and the Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR THE MAIN PLOT OF FALLOUT 4. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

“Everyone, keep a tight formation,” Danse said in a low voice, crouched down as he reeled off his orders to his squad. “Marguerie, watch the rear. Cooper, you take point with me. The rest of you, follow and stay sharp. You’ve all fought them before; you know how fast they are. But they don't have our training. If you stay alert, you’ll be fine...even if we find the worst in there.”

He broke off. It would do no good to lose composure now. Not when they were so close. His team was counting on him. When Danse spoke again, his voice was blissfully steady.

“Look out for survivors, but don't compromise your own safety or the safety of the squad. We're not here for heroics. Shout out to the rest of us so we can secure them and keep them out of harm’s way. If you find anyone who didn't make it, leave them and collect their tags _after_ we have cleared the area. Understood?”

There was a sharp burst of confirmation, and Danse nodded. Then came a question he had been dreading.

“Paladin,” Rachel Marguerie said, “what if they've been...turned?”

“Then we put them out of their misery.”

If any of them were shocked by the coldness of his response, they didn't show it. Instead, they fell into their positions and moved in formation behind him as they entered the building.

There was a flash of white light, the slam of a heavy, metal door, and Danse found himself alone with nothing but a rifle and his uniform. Where was his armour? Where were the others? He tried the door behind him, but it was sealed shut. For some reason, this made perfect sense to him, and he knew he had to keep going forward. Raising his gun, Danse edged down the stairs.

Despite the darkness, he knew exactly where he was. The marketplace of Rivet City was unmistakable, the dim, flickering light above casting deep shadows in the empty stands and reflecting off the metal walls and ceiling. The usual tables and chairs were absent, and in their place was a lone, crumpled figure, dressed in fraying civilian clothes. He groaned and moved, turning his young face towards him.

“Cutler!”

Danse felt relief flood through him. Cutler was alive. Cutler was _human._ He could rescue him, locate his team, and retreat for the time being. There were others that needed to be found, but this was Rivet City, the safest settlement in the D.C. wasteland. Everything would be fine, so long as he removed Cutler now, before it was too late.

_Too late for what?_

As Danse stepped forward, a familiar voice whispered out to him.

_“Kill him.”_

“What?” Danse looked around, but there was no one there. Shaking his head, Danse ran over to Cutler, putting down his gun as he knelt and shook his friend. “Cutler!”

Cutler looked older now, wearing a uniform like his, but still lying in the exact same position as before.

“Kill him.”

The voice was back, closer and stronger than ever. Danse turned to see a formidable figure towering over him.

“You won't, will you?” said Paladin Krieg. “You won't do it. What an example to the others you are: sympathising with ghouls from the Slog, sparing a synth, and now _this?”_

Krieg gestured towards the body on the floor. “You always admired the security of my beliefs, but the moment yours come under scrutiny, you buckle? You're a _disgrace.”_

“No!” The weight of his mentor’s condemnation was too much to bear. “I’m loyal; I always have been. I stuck to the code even when I thought it could be wrong. I…” He glanced at Cutler, his insides freezing up.

_I had to…_

“You've abandoned your beliefs,” Krieg pressed on. “The same way you’ve abandoned the Brotherhood.”

New figures appeared around him, but he knew them all by name and face. Their final moments had been burned into his mind, the letters he had written to each of their families committed to memory.

Cassin. Blythe. Keane. Worwick. Brach. Dawes. Cutler.

“You let them die.”

Danse bowed his head. “...I let them die.”

“Your weakness cost them their lives. Your lack of faith in the Brotherhood will cost many more. You're unworthy to hold the rank of paladin.”

Danse looked up at each of the men and women he had let down. They stared at him in silence, their faces blank and expressionless.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly.

“And what of him?” Krieg continued, ignoring him as he pointed at Cutler. “If you’d pushed harder, you could have assembled a team earlier. If you’d been a competent leader, you could have found him sooner. If you’d been a better man, you could have saved him. It is your _duty,_ soldier, to finish the job.”

His stomach feeling like it was filled with lead, Danse moved to look at Cutler again, but something smashed into the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground. Before he could make sense of what was happening, a pair of big, yellow-green hands fastened around his neck, the thumbs pushing deep into his throat.

A wild, lipless face appeared in front of Danse’s, the crazed eyes darting from side to side as its teeth gnashed at him. Danse pushed back, and the teeth narrowly missed his nose. He caught a glimpse of a tattered Brotherhood uniform hanging off its limbs, and the flash of a set of dog tags tight around the monster’s meaty neck. Even in the height of his panic, Danse saw the word _‘Cutler'_ stamped into the metal.

* * *

With a gasp that wracked his entire body, Danse woke. He panted, chest heaving as he struggled for air, feeling Cutler’s presence slowly drift away to the recesses of his mind. Something stirred in his arms, and he glanced down to see Quinn lying on her front, staring up at him blankly. Danse blinked and realised he was hugging her tight, the way a child would hold a favourite toy.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, releasing her, but she didn’t move, and continued to look at him.

“The nightmares?” she asked after a few beats of silence.

Danse nodded, wiping the sweat away from his face, as he took deep, steadying breaths. The shaking would stop soon. His eyes met Quinn’s, and a rush of affection washed over him, making him want to hold her again. Danse restrained himself. She’d been through enough already.

But still, Quinn did not move. She continued to watch him, her face hollow and desolate. He squirmed on the spot, a twinge of concern sparking inside of him. This was worse than the screaming rage she had been in earlier; at least then there had been a driving force, a sign that she lived and breathed. Now there was nothing.

“Quinn?”

Quinn placed a hand on his chest and pushed herself upright, still staring at him with empty eyes. They drifted over him, searching without seeing. Something flashed across them, so brief Danse barely caught it.

Need.

Her fingers played with the fabric of his uniform, snagging at it as she turned and faced him fully. Her other hand joined the fray, balancing her as she shifted her weight onto her knees, never breaking eye contact, never changing her expression.

Danse clenched his fists nervously, his heart thundering away so loudly it was a wonder it didn’t wake up the entire settlement. Unease crept over him as Quinn’s hands slid to his shoulders, sending shivers down his spine while his stomach twisted in a mixture of anticipation and dread.

_What the hell is she doing?_

Quinn leaned forward, her gaze boring into him, until he could feel her breath tickling his skin. She stopped mere inches from him, so close to his face the slightest movement would cause them to touch. Danse dug his fingers into the floor, unable to look away from her. He tried to think, but all that came up was static. Quinn stayed where she was; still, but uncomfortably close. And yet she didn’t try to move away either. It seemed she had gone as far as she was able, teetering on the edge.

The next move was his.

An eternity stretched out between them as Danse fumbled inside his head. Was he really considering this? More importantly, why was she? The frantic thudding in his chest was distracting him almost as much his discomfort. And yet...what would her lips feel like pressed against his?

From the depths of his mind, Krieg’s words surfaced, lashing out like a whip.

_Your weakness cost them their lives. Your lack of faith in the Brotherhood will cost many more._

This was wrong. It was clear from the look on Quinn’s vacant, unfocused eyes that she was here in body, but not in mind. Not only that, but there was the issue he had been ignoring for some time now.

Quinn was not the same as him. She didn’t hold his beliefs, as much as he liked to pretend to himself that she did, and her dedication was questionable at best. Romance was not forbidden amongst the ranks - people working together so closely were bound to develop feelings for each other - but Danse could only see it ending in disaster. His life was the Brotherhood - everything he had, everything he was, everything he was ever going to be, was tied to its ideals and to the cause it championed. It was his home, his family...the things he had never had in his childhood.

Quinn worked for the good of the Brotherhood, but she had proven time and time again that when pressed, her loyalty would waver.

How often had she challenged him now? First ghouls, then synths...there was only so long it could be ignored, as much as he cared about her. She may have the Brotherhood’s ideals at heart, but she was willing to bend them, sometimes even break them. As her friend, he was proud that she strived to do so much good, but as a paladin, he would not have allowed it from anyone else. He was making exceptions for her when he knew he should be putting her in her place. She was becoming his Achilles’ heel, whether he liked it or not.

_I am not weak. I am loyal._

Certainty flooded back into him as he took hold of her shoulders and gently - but firmly - pushed her away.

“No.”

It was as if someone had turned a light on inside Quinn’s head. All at once, she snapped back into being, finally aware of her surroundings. Confusion crossed her face, mingled with what Danse could only identify as relief.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, putting a hand to her forehead.

“There’s no need to apologise,” Danse replied, wishing he had something better to say. “You’re not yourself, not since you returned from the-”

“I shouldn’t have…this is Magnolia all over again,” Quinn babbled over him, not listening. “I just...I need...it _hurts.”_

The mask cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks, and suddenly she was in his arms again, sobs racking her body. This time, however, Danse felt slightly more prepared, and he let her cry it all out.

His mind was whirring. _This is Magnolia all over again._ Was that all it had been - a fleeting moment of insanity because she wasn’t over Nate? He supposed he should be relieved, reassured that their friendship wasn't in jeopardy, but instead Danse simply felt stung. At least he knew where he stood with her. And yet the image of her face, inches away from his own, would not leave his head. Even as she bawled into his chest, his thoughts lingered on what could have happened.

A daydream began to play, in which he _had_ taken the next step. The very thought of it made his stomach writhe - despite his insistence to himself that it was not right, that it would cause ruin, Danse had no idea if he had wanted it. But that was irrelevant; he wasn’t convinced Quinn had wanted it either. Regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, if he had allowed himself that moment of weakness, he would have been taking advantage of her current vulnerable state. Whatever had happened at the Institute had struck a terrible blow on her.

It didn’t take long for Quinn to calm down; the sudden change in her mood unnerved him a little. She kept switching from one extreme to another with no consistency in the pattern. Danse tried to sit up, letting his arms fall to his sides, but she clung to him. This had to stop now. He was not going to be her replacement for Nate, and he was not going to let personal feelings compromise his commitment to the Brotherhood.

“Quinn-”

“Just until morning. Please.”

Danse considered this, glancing out of the hole in the wall. The sky was still dark outside, though he suspected it wouldn’t be long until splashes of colour appeared on the horizon. What were a few hours more? He was just trying to support her after all, especially since that synth had gone back on his word and not reappeared after he’d left the house. It occurred to Danse that perhaps the synth _had_ checked on them while they had been asleep, but he found it much easier to simply disregard the machine’s efforts as non-existent.

But...

Krieg’s words were still playing over in his head. They were only the echoes of a dream, but they still rang true. He was letting himself slip, allowing himself to fall away from everything he had been taught. However, the thought of facing his demons alone until daybreak sent a cold shiver through him. Quinn’s presence was...comforting.

Danse made a disgruntled, muttering sound, but didn’t try to force her away. They sat in silence, his arms trailing awkwardly on the floor. Where would they go from here? They had to head back to the Prydwen eventually, but whether Quinn was in any fit state to fight her way across the Commonwealth was another matter entirely. He supposed she would want to stay here for a while with her...friends. Danse pulled a face. He could not see the appeal of friendship with a machine and walking corpse. The sooner they returned to the Brotherhood, the sooner he could try to convince her that the synth and the ghoul would turn on her eventually.

Well, that would come with time. Unless Elder Maxson assigned him elsewhere, he had no intention of parting ways with Quinn. They made a good team, and when the abominations showed their true colours, he knew he’d be there to put them down for good. She wouldn’t face them alone.

Without thinking, Danse put his hand on Quinn’s waist.

She flinched beneath his palm, and Danse snapped back to his senses. He had _just_ told her no. What was he _doing?_ His hand jerked away as if he’d been burnt, mumbling a hurried apology, but Quinn seized his fingers, pulling his arm so that it lay across her body.

Danse tensed. Thoughts were whirling around his head, an edge of panic creeping in now. Where was the resolve that had served him so well over all these years? Where was his sense of duty and professionalism? _Where did his loyalties lie?_

But then he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

“Just until morning?” he asked quietly.

“Just until morning,” Quinn repeated.

Danse didn’t reply, but he tightened his arm around her, holding her close.

* * *

Neither of them slept again that night. Quinn could tell from the way he breathed, from the lack of nightmares. Was he afraid to sleep?

She knew she was.

Every time Quinn shut her eyes, the dark returned, scratching at the confines of her mind. The Institute lurked, waiting for a moment of weakness, before striking her down with her new memories. Every lapse of her concentration delivered the image of the little boy, his back pressed against his cell wall as he tried to get as far away from her as possible. The look of fear he had given her was burned into her brain. But of course, that child had been destined to see her as a stranger. Father, on the other hand…

Quinn pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the rise and fall of Danse’s chest. Any other time, she would have been mortified at what had happened, but instead she felt nothing. Quinn supposed she should be worried about this, but again, all she felt was an expectation of an emotion, rather than the emotion itself. It had all been a blur since her talk with Father, her return to Sanctuary nothing but a frenzied, furious mess. Now a blanket of numb was draped over her, suffocating out any feeling that could cause her harm. But what else was there? She no longer had the goal of Shaun to strive towards.

_There’s nothing worth saving here,_ Quinn thought blandly. _Nothing matters anymore._

Time stretched out before her as the minutes ticked by. Nate dominated her thoughts; her version of him hated her for what she had tried to do with Danse, and despised her even more for allowing what had happened to their son. Anger rolled off the Nate in her head as he pointed an accusing finger at her, before turning his back on her for good.

The world no longer felt real for Quinn, the crushing weight of despair held back only by the null that now consumed her. She had only felt this kind of desolation once before, when her father had walked out on them when she was thirteen. The comparison was almost enough to make her laugh, and yet Quinn could not deny that the feelings of helplessness were the same.

What was strange, though, was the fluctuation of her mental state. She had expected to stay detached, and yet instead it had been a rollercoaster of emotions, throwing her through highs of misery and lows of apathy. Despite her grief, her moments with Danse had provided an odd calm, different from the cool indifference that had been trying to choke her. It was as if his presence was piercing the veil and allowing the warmth back into her flesh, making everything real again. It hurt - God, it hurt so much - but it was a pain that told her she was alive. Surely Nate could forgive her for that?

“What happened in the Institute?”

Danse’s question hung in the air, a guillotine blade on a fraying rope. Quinn had wondered when his curiosity would get the better of him, but he had lasted longer than she’d expected. She licked her lips; how the hell was she supposed to explain this? Danse would hate her. He would _hate_ her.

_“Sixty,”_ she said. The rest of her words failed to appear, catching in her throat as her head clouded. Saying it aloud to someone was confirming it, setting it in stone. If she continued, it would become _Truth_. Could she accept it?

“What?” Danse said, his tone full of confusion. Quinn took a deep breath.

“Not ten years. _Sixty.”_

The story came pouring out of her like the breaking of a dam. Once the barrier was gone, Quinn could do nothing to stop the torrent of the meeting in the heart of the Institute. Though her chest convulsed and her throat tightened, the words forced their way out into the open, laying bare the cause of her misery.

She had been unarmed, her gun tossed aside as she banged and screamed for her son on the glass cell wall, when a man had entered the room. His appearance had thrown her; he was a stranger, but oddly familiar in a way that made her uneasy. Father, he had called himself. He was calm with her, much calmer than she had been - threatening to kill him and everyone else in the Institute if he didn’t give back Shaun. Father had smiled at her the way a parent would calm down a crying child, before dropping a bombshell.

_I am your son._

Time had stood still. She had peered at the man - an old, old man - and saw that despite his age, despite his clean-cut appearance and clinical disposition, he was the absolute image of Nate.

The Institute, she realised, had turned him into a monster.

At first, she was simply confused, disbelieving - but as Father went on to explain his kidnapping, that sixty years had passed instead of ten, Quinn began to hear a cold, indifference that was more than just his tone of voice. It was his very being. Nate’s death barely registered with him, and his lack of concern for the acts he had committed, the people he had hurt with his synths…

Quinn found the more time she spent with him, the more she grew to hate him. She would never have allowed Shaun to become something like _this_ \- neither would Nate. And yet once Shaun had laid in her arms, small and new, his entire life before him. The sorrow in her heart mingled with a love so intense she thought it might kill her.

After two days, it was time to go. She had seen everything she had needed to, and understood far more than she wanted to. Whatever had been holding her together was slowly fading, and Quinn had found that she was on the brink of snapping. With Father’s blessing and talk of her returning soon, she had left the Institute, knowing deep inside that she would never see her son again.

There was a long silence as Quinn finished, her breath rattling through her throat as it worked its way past her trembling lips. Danse hadn’t uttered a word since she had started ranting, recalling the dirty secrets of the Institute. She didn’t blame him; the leader of the Brotherhood’s enemy was her son. He probably thought even being near her was too much of a risk. Come morning, Danse would be gone from her life forever. Of that, she was certain.

It didn’t matter.

The realisation staggered Quinn.

The idea of Danse not being a part of her world anymore had once been something monumental in her eyes. Now, it barely registered. A blip in her existence. It was like her fussing over a paper cut when she had just lost her arm.

Her son had grown and lived without her, an old man with more pages in the story of his life than she could ever have imagined. The face of the nurse floated to mind, the nurse that had calmed her down before she had held her son for the first time.

_“...you’ve got the best years of your life ahead of you, filled with joy and love. Their first steps. The first time they call you ‘mommy.’ Their first day of school...you’ve got it all to come.”_

The pain was near unbearable. She had missed it all; her life and everything it could have been had been stolen by the Institute, reducing her to nothing but an unfamiliar face, easily forgotten in a crowd. And her baby boy was _one of them._

“Quinn, I’m...I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she snapped, no longer feeling any need to cry. No. It was too much. Better to just not feel at all than to endure the needles in her heart. The hurt was draining away from her, replaced by a blissful, blank calm. When she spoke again, her tone was dispassionate and flat.

“Why would you be sorry? You didn’t know Shaun. You barely know me. I’m the mother of your greatest foe.”

“Because I can see the distress it’s causing you.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

_Liar._

Quinn sat up, shrugging him off. “I spent two days in that place, searching for something to prove he wasn’t responsible for everything that is wrong with the Commonwealth. I found nothing. He was never a victim of the Institute’s goals; he’s the _successor_ to them.”

Quinn paused, trying to keep herself under control. “He said Nate’s death was a…was an unfortunate bit of _collateral damage.”_ She laughed a wild, high-pitched giggle - it sounded like it belonged to someone else entirely. _“Collateral damage!_ My god. They ruined him. They took him from me and they _ruined_ him. He’s a _monster.”_

Her voice broke on the last word, but she bit down on her lip, refusing to let the tears come again. It was only when Danse took her hands in his, tugging them away from her face, that Quinn realised she had been digging her nails into her skin. With a grunt of annoyance, she wrenched herself away from him, throwing the blankets off and standing up.

“I can’t go back,” she croaked, unable to look at him. “I can’t go back to the Brotherhood.”

“What do you mean, you can’t go back?” Danse was on his feet now too, wearing a troubled frown. “You need the Brotherhood more than ever. They’re as good as family-”

“I _had_ a family. I don’t need a replacement.”

“I didn’t mean…” Danse gestured helplessly. “They can help you fight your son. _I_ can help you put a stop to this.”

“I can’t.”

And there was the source of her misery. It wasn’t simply the theft of her child, or even the deeds he had committed throughout his long life; no, they paled in comparison to the true atrocity: instead of saving her son, she would be expected to bring judgement down upon him.

“Quinn-”

Quinn rubbed at her eyes with quivering fingers. “Don’t ask me to do that, Danse. I don’t care what he is. I won’t hurt Shaun.”

“You’re just going to _let him_ run amok?” The shock in Danse’s voice was clear as he stared at her. “You’re just going to _let_ the kidnappings and infiltration of synths continue?”

“There would be only one way to stop it, and you know it!” Quinn hurled back. “The Commonwealth would want his blood. I will _not. Hurt. My. Son!”_

Danse took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly from his mouth. When he spoke again, his tone had calmed considerably, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his agitation. “You swore to protect the people of the wasteland. You swore to uphold the code of the Brotherhood. If you can’t personally assist, Elder Maxson would understand. _I_ would understand. But leaving and ignoring the problem entirely? It’s your _duty_ as a soldier to help put things right, in whatever way you can.”

_“No.”_

He put a hand to his forehead, gritting his teeth, forcing out his words through his clenched jaw. “You are the most... _frustrating_ woman I’ve ever met!”

“Sorry to disappoint you then.”

“I can’t be disappointed by what I already expected,” Danse snapped, before closing his eyes and taking another deep breath. When he opened them again, the demeanour of a paladin greeted her. “I promised I would support you, and I intend to stick by that promise. Leaving your side now would cause more harm than good, but…”

He shook his head. “I’m going to repair my armour. Let me know when you’re ready to head out.”

He stormed past her without another word, leaving her alone with the bones of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful feedback you left me last chapter! It seriously made my day. Thank you. :)
> 
> (Awkward and Katlen, your reviews in particular made me blush! But I love seeing all my regulars too, and I take on board what you say, which is why I wanted to chat to you, Awkward. It's a pity this site doesn't have a proper PM system)
> 
> There was a guest reviewer on FFnet who asked if Danse could start being nice to Nick sooner. I felt like I should address this here, too. As much as I would love for Danse not to be a colossal ass to my favourite toaster detective (seriously, it hurts me writing him being so mean), it wouldn't be in-character of him to cut Nick a break at this point in time. Danse is still basically married to the Brotherhood and totally on board with their ideals. However, that is not to say he couldn't eventually take that particular stick out of his ass. It would just take a very long time... ;)
> 
> Now, thank yous! Thank you to tasty-poptard and sillynuggetarts (tumblr), and waiting4morning (FFnet) for their invaluable beta help. This story would not see the light of day without them.


	17. Doctors and Dames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that it's a little bit late. Been busy with work this week, and feeling pretty shitty on Friday when I was finishing this off. Then had to do social stuff today, so couldn't post until I got home.

“So, this is where you got to?”

Quinn’s legs dangled over the edge of a roof on the far side of Sanctuary from her old home. The house had once belonged to Mrs Bossanova, a tiny, elderly lady who had kept an antique sword collection the way most old dears kept cats. Quinn had never asked why Mrs Bossanova had them; it felt like if she knew the answer, the old lady would have had to kill her.

Quinn gazed down the street to her own ruined home, smiling slightly at the pile of friends propped outside the front door. Hancock, Preston, and Piper were sat in a line, fast asleep against the wall; likely they had been waiting all night for her to emerge so they could talk to her. She had silently skirted around them and made her way towards sweet isolation, occasionally glancing around to see if Danse was nearby. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Kid, don’t ignore me. I have the patience of a saint.”

With a sigh, Quinn looked down to see Nick Valentine gazing up at her from the sidewalk, arms folded and wearing a frown.

“What is it, Nick?”

“You tell me.” He paused, and when she didn’t answer, grumbled to himself. “Am I going to have to come up there?”

“No.” She looked out onto the horizon at the washed out colours of the Commonwealth sunrise. Everything was so _muted_ here, bled of life. Quinn gave a little shrug. “I’m fine.”

More grumbling.

“So what you mean is, _‘Yes, Nick, I would like to make the old rust bucket climb up a house because I’m too damn stubborn to come down to you,’”_ Nick said in a high-pitched imitation of Quinn’s voice.

“Well, it’ll get the coolant pumping, at any rate. _‘Oh, Nick, are you sure? I don’t want you to hurt yourself! You’re so old and fragile.’_ Oh no, don’t worry. My arm might be about to fall off, but it’s no trouble at all. _‘Oh Nick, you’re so wonderful, so kind…’_ ”

He went on muttering to himself as he made his way around the back of the house and noisily clambered up, knocking off the remains of a drainpipe and snapping off a window ledge as he went. Eventually he pulled himself onto the roof and stomped over, dropping himself down so heavily next to her he loosened several shingles and nearly slid straight off with them. Quinn grabbed him and yanked him back as the tiles fell to the ground with a loud smash.

In the distance, Hancock stirred, nudging Piper in his sleep, but neither of them woke.

Quinn turned to Nick, her eyebrows raised. “Are you done?”

“Yeah, I think I got it out of my system.”

Quinn laughed at this, and then found that she couldn’t stop. She laughed and laughed until her face was bright red, her sides aching as tears rolled down her cheeks. She laughed so hard, Nick took hold of her by the collar to make sure she didn’t take a tumble off the roof either. She laughed until it began to hurt so badly, that she realised she had transitioned into crying without so much as a pause, clutching at Nick’s coat as she sobbed into his shirt.

He patted her back gently until she quieted down, and then produced a greying handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at her eyes with the softest of touches. He had once told her that the original Nick had kept a handkerchief with him at all times, and that continuing the tradition simply felt like the right thing to do. Plus, it had come in handy with all the _“crying dames that flood into my office.”_

“Better?” he asked, smiling at her with a hint of concern.

“Yeah.” She sniffed and returned the smile. “Thanks.”

Nick pocketed the handkerchief again, his arm still around her as he studied her. Eventually he said, “Now...you want to tell me what’s been going on?”

A part of her knew he wouldn’t judge her, knew he would support her no matter what. But the night with Danse had exhausted her, stripping her to her core. Quinn lowered her eyes, biting her lip, and shook her head. “I’m tired, Nick, I…” she trailed off. If there was one man who had always stood by her, no questions asked, it was Nick Valentine. She rubbed her eyes, sighed, and began to talk.

It wasn’t the full version of events - Quinn didn’t have the energy for it again - but she gave the best summary she could, hoping he wouldn’t press her for details. He didn’t. Instead, when she had finished, Nick gave her a little squeeze with his arm.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

Quinn believed him.

They sat together as the sky slowly brightened and other settlers began to step out from their houses. At one point, she thought she heard a scuffling noise behind the house, but when she strained her ears, heard nothing else, and so forgot about it.

Piper was the first of the trio to wake, shoving Hancock off her shoulder as she stood up and went into the house. She came out moments later, as Preston tried to detangle himself from the struggling Hancock, and started talking to him. The two men leapt to their feet, and all of them ran off in different directions, calling her name.

She watched them, but didn’t answer. Nick shot her a look, but didn’t force her to respond. Instead, he said, “They’re worried about you, you know. So am I. Do you need to talk about it? Vent a little? Shoot some raiders?”

“No.” She’d had enough venting with Danse last night, and it had ended in tears. Even though Nick wouldn’t be the same, Quinn felt too empty to be angry. It was what it was.

There was a slight pause. Nick took the plunge and said, “So...what are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing I can do,” she replied with a shrug. “As I said to...as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m not going to hurt my own son.”

“I did catch a little bit of that debate this morning,” Nick admitted sheepishly. “So you’re going to leave the Brotherhood?”

“Yeah.”

There was a prolonged silence. She sensed Nick was choosing his words very carefully. Eventually, he spoke.

“While I’d normally be pleased that you’ve found some common sense at last, leaving the Brotherhood…” He sighed. _“I can’t believe I’m saying this._..leaving the Brotherhood might not be the best choice for you right now.”

 _“What?”_ Quinn was flabbergasted. “Nick, they’d kill you without a second thought! Danse even tried! Do you need rewiring or something?”

“Yeah yeah, funny,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “I mean it. When we first started working together, you nearly drank yourself into a coma and ended up sobbing into a gutter in the middle of Goodneighbor. You kept up that behaviour right the way through, even _after_ you took down Kellogg; I barely saw you sober through most of our downtime. Then you disappear for a few months and come back to Sanctuary, and it’s like you’re an entirely new person. Grounded. In _control_ of yourself. Paladin Danse-”

“Is a fucking asshole,” Quinn cut in fiercely.

“No arguments there,” Nick said with a nod. “But even I can see the man has a calming effect on you, whatever his flaws. And you’re strong enough of a person not to let him or his zealot brothers change you for the worse. I mean, look at yesterday. I thought we were going to have a hell of a fight on our hands with you in that house, but he stopped you from trashing the place almost instantly.”

“Nick-”

 _“Look,_ I’m not saying you stay with them permanently,” Nick said, talking firmly over her. “I think you’re too good for them. And I think if you did go back, you would reach a point where their ideologies cross to a place you wouldn’t follow. I trust you to know where that point would be. But what I _am_ saying is you’re going through a bad time, and the rest of us don’t seem to have the influence that is needed to stop you from self-destructing.”

He smiled at her. “Besides, it’s obvious to me who the boss is in your partnership. I doubt anyone else could have talked down a Brotherhood paladin from shooting me in the head. Danse is fond of you, kid, and he’s disciplined enough to help you stay on track.”

“He’s a fucking asshole,” she said again, but with less conviction this time.

“He is,” Nick said soothingly. “He is. But unless I’m mistaken, you’re fond of him too.”

 _“Don’t,_ Valentine.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his free hand in mock surrender. “I’m just sayin’, I’d trust him with your life. And that’s something, considering he’s Brotherhood.”

They sat together for a few minutes, Nick’s arm still tight around her, Quinn’s head rested on his shoulder. He felt cold and hard, nothing like Danse. She wondered where he was right now - maybe he’d left. The thought bothered her more than she cared to admit.

“I suppose I better let them know I’m alright,” Quinn said, sitting up straight. Nick let his arm drop away from her, and she smiled at him. “But I don’t really want to tell them what happened. It’s...everything is just exhausting.”

“I’ll put on my sternest voice for them, kid,” Nick said with a grin. He paused, his eyes widening, and then dug his hand into his coat pocket. “Oh! Before I forget…”

Quinn’s breath caught in her throat. Resting in his palm, now chipped and slightly cracked, was her holotape. Did she want it? Her hand hovered over it for a second before her fingers closed around the battered plastic. Yes. Of _course_ she did. Trembling, she opened up the compartment on her Pip-Boy and put the tape in, snapping shut the lid with a loud click. She pressed play.

_"Oops, haha. Keep those little fingers away…”_

Shaun was gurgling away in the background. A jolt of dread and panic surged through her, and Quinn gasped as she jabbed at the Pip-Boy, jerking her body so hard she slipped forward. Nick grabbed hold of her at the last second and hauled her back, hugging her tight as she hyperventilated, her hands pressed firmly to her ears. The tape had long since stopped, but the ghosts lingered.

Shaun was dead. Only Father remained now.

* * *

It took far too long for Quinn to unstick herself from the others. There was a small spark of guilt in her heart at the looks on their faces as she rebuffed their concern - Piper in particular looked wounded.

_“Blue, we just want to make sure you’re alright.”_

_“You and everyone else in this settlement.”_

Yes. She’d hurt Piper with those words. But it hadn’t been Nick that had made them leave her alone; it had been Preston. He had watched her quietly while she dodged question after question, before his low, gentle voice brought everyone to a halt.

_“The General doesn’t want to speak about it. Leave her be.”_

Quinn could have kissed him. And when she caught his eye, offering him her unspoken gratitude, she saw a glimmer of understanding in him. This strange, consuming mood that held her...he knew it, the way a man knows his oldest friend. Quinn couldn’t say how she recognised this in him; it was simply plain as day to her, where others couldn’t see.

Only Hancock didn’t say anything, puffing on a cigarette as he observed her with a shrewd look on his face. When Preston interjected, Hancock flicked away the cigarette and walked off in the direction of one of the houses without looking back. Quinn hadn’t tried to stop him.

Now here she was, alone, walking out of the settlement towards her little hideaway in the Commonwealth. Nick and Piper had tried to insist she had an escort, but once again, Preston talked them down. She needed time, he had said, and that time was what they should give her. It seemed there was more to Preston than she had ever realised.

_He’s a good friend._

The Red Rocket truck stop came into view, as shabby and derelict as ever. Quinn smiled. As she drew closer, an excited barking echoed from inside, and out bounded a dirty German Shepherd, his tail wagging so fast he looked like he was about to take flight. Quinn crouched down, putting her gun aside and opening out her arms. Dogmeat launched himself at her, and the two of them fell into a heap on the ground, the dog licking every inch of her face while she laughed loudly.

“Miss Quinn, you’re back!”

Codsworth floated over to her as she lay on the ground, Dogmeat turning his attention to her ears.

“Hey, Codsworth.” She had a soft spot for the old, battered Mr. Handy. “How are you?”

“Splendid now you’re here, mum!” If he had a face, Quinn suspected he would have been grinning from ear to ear. He moved around her, waving his pincer hand at Dogmeat. “Shoo, shoo! You are getting Miss Quinn all dirty!”

Dogmeat ignored the robot, his tail banging against Codsworth’s metal body so much, he had to float back a few inches.

Codsworth let out a sigh as Dogmeat clambered all over Quinn, and then said in a brighter voice, “I saw flashes of light over at Sanctuary, mum. I would have investigated, but you told me to stay here and keep Dogmeat company. Does this mean you have found Master Shaun at last?”

Quinn winced. “I did.”

“Oh, _well done_ , Miss Quinn!” Codsworth floated from side to side, revolving slowly on the spot. “...Where is he?”

“I…” Quinn swallowed. Codsworth was the strangest robot she had ever met; he didn’t have Institute technology in him, and yet when she had first found him, he had been devastated by the war. Not that he showed this at first. It had taken a few lonely nights of her drinking in the Red Rocket truck stop and talking to him about the past before he had mentioned his feelings on the matter. For a mechanical butler, he was surprisingly sentient. Quinn liked it. It was nice to have someone left who knew her from before the bombs, even if all he had to offer was empty memories.

Still, she didn’t want to make things worse for him. Forcing a smile, she said, “He’s somewhere safe. I decided to leave him where he was, but I can go visit him whenever I want to.”

“Oh.” Codsworth stopped spinning around and faced her. “Are you sure that’s wise, Miss Quinn? I would be more than happy to look after him when you are busy.”

“And you’d be wonderful at it, Codsworth. But it really is the best place for him.”

_The only place for him._

“Well...a mother knows best!” His tone brightened as he bobbed up and down in place. “Shall I prepare breakfast for you, mum?”

Quinn opened her mouth to tell him it sounded wonderful, and immediately received a big, sloppy lick from Dogmeat right across her face. She spluttered in surprise, and then sat up as the dog jumped off her and bounded away, barking. She squinted into the distance to see what he had spotted, and felt her insides churn.

Partly concealed by some bushes, and looking thoroughly red-faced, was Danse. He stood as soon Quinn looked at him, and then glanced down at the approaching animal. Dogmeat trotted over, circling around the paladin and sniffing at his feet and legs. There was a pause, and then his tail started wagging as he bounced around, before standing up on his hind legs, his front paws on Danse’s midriff. Danse chuckled and gently scratched the top of Dogmeat’s head with one finger, and shot Quinn a nervous look.

“I just wanted to see if you were alright,” he said, dropping his gaze to the ground.

Quinn stood up and walked over to him, her arms folded. How the hell had he sneaked up on her in power armour again? She really needed to work on her listening skills. As she drew closer, she gave him a sour look. “I’m fine. And as I told everyone else, I want to be alone right now.”

Danse nodded, but didn’t move, shifting from foot to foot, his face growing steadily redder. “I just wanted to say…” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

Quinn raised her eyebrows. “An apology?” she said coldly. “That’s two now. I should make a tally chart.”

Danse continued, not quite looking at her, though a frown appeared on his face. “I still disagree with you-”

“Ah, as I expected-”

“Please,” Danse said quickly. “You have every right to be angry, but please...let me finish.” He took another deep breath. “I don’t agree with you leaving, but I can’t force you to stay. I _shouldn’t_ force you to stay. The Brotherhood is an organisation of everything or nothing; if your heart’s no longer in it, it would be wrong to impose it upon you...regardless of my feelings on the matter.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “So what you’re saying is that the only reason you’re bothered by this is because I’m not dedicated enough for your liking?”

“No, I-” Danse’s reached new shades of red Quinn could never have imagined. “I’m...not very good at this kind of thing. I…” He glanced from side to side, as if looking for some sort of escape route. Finally, he blurted out, “You’re a good friend and I don’t want to lose you.”

Quinn blinked. In the back of her mind, the conversation they’d had in Goodneighbor played on loop, and suddenly she understood.

_“It’s a good feeling, but it frightens me all the same. Having a bond with someone then losing them...it changes you. I don’t want to go through that again.”_

“Danse…”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I was...emotionally compromised earlier. That’s no excuse; you’d been through worse and still kept control of yourself. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but I can’t deny that I meant every word. I am Brotherhood, through and through, and that will always be where my loyalty lies. It’s who I am - I can’t change that. But I’ve had some time to think, and what I’ve realised is that just because you can’t bring yourself to stay, doesn’t necessarily mean that bond of friendship is broken.”

He sighed, still not meeting her eye. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry. You have suffered a hard loss, and I put myself before you. It was selfish of me. We may eventually go our separate ways because of my duties, but that is something I will just have to come to terms with myself. I shouldn’t have tried to force you.”

Quinn wasn’t quite sure what to say. Of all the things he could have said, this was the last thing she expected from him. And if she knew Danse - and she was fairly certain she did by now - something like this must have taken a massive effort on his part.

Her expression relaxed somewhat as she said, “What brought this on?”

“I heard you with the synth,” Danse replied at once. “He made enough noise to draw my attention, and then I found I couldn’t stop listening.” He coughed uncomfortably. “And then later, with the ghoul and the others I...overheard again. You didn’t tell any of them what you told me. Not all of it. It made me realise that you trusted me enough to share everything, even though it could have put your son at risk. And I tried to turn it against you. I’m sorry.”

There were a few moments of silence.

“You want some breakfast?” she said.

Danse finally looked at her, his eyebrows knotted together in confusion. “What?”

“Breakfast. I’m starving, and I could use some company. I could give you a tour of my estate as well, if you like.” She waved her hand in the direction of the run-down truck stop.

He blinked a few times, and then a small, relieved smile played on his lips. “Yes. That sounds good.”

“Codsworth!” Quinn yelled over her shoulder. “Omelettes for two, please!”

“Right away, Miss Quinn,” Codsworth said chirpily, and floated away into the truck stop.

“Where will it get the eggs?”

“He,” Quinn corrected automatically. “And I have a stash of mirelurk eggs. As it turns out, they keep for a ridiculously long time so long as they stay dry. Not so much if they’re damp. I had a nasty surprise the first time I tried to stash the eggs away and found my freezer box full of extremely pissed off mirelurk hatchlings the next morning.”

Danse snorted with laughter as he followed her into the truck stop, but there was a crunch of metal on metal, and it was Quinn’s turn to snigger as he wedged himself into the doorframe.

“Need any help, paladin?” she asked sweetly, watching him struggle.

“Not at all,” Danse replied, the telltale flush lurking underneath his stubble. “A momentary setback. I failed to properly estimate the dimensions of the entrance, and as a result, did not angle myself appropriately to…” He stopped, jerking from side to side, and then paused. “I may require assistance.”

That did it. Quinn sat on the old, tiled floor and laughed herself silly, unable to look at him without erupting into a fresh set of giggles. Danse glowered at her from the door, and eventually she relented.

“Alright, alright,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. She stood up, still chuckling to herself, and took hold of the handles on the front of Danse’s power armour. “Put your foot forward so you don’t fall on me when you come through.”

He did as she asked. Quinn put her entire body weight onto the handles, almost lifting herself off the floor as she pulled. The power armour moved down, inch by inch, and then with a sudden clang, came free. Danse staggered forward slightly, his stance catching most of the momentum, but Quinn went sprawling in a heap.

“Serves you right,” Danse said, but he offered her a hand. She took it, and he pulled her up with fluid ease. They looked at each other for a moment, still holding hands, and Quinn felt herself relax. The argument of that morning had been patched a little. Some anger remained at what he had said, but it burnt less. All wasn’t quite forgiven yet, but Quinn remembered he had forgiven her quickly over her comments about Cutler. She could cut him some slack, at least.

Danse coughed and let go. “So, the grand tour?”

Quinn nodded and took him into the main room, watching him with a beady eye as he carefully navigated his way through the door. “Why don’t you just take the armour off?”

“Negative,” Danse replied with a shake of his head. “In an insecure location such as this, protection is paramount.”

“Danse, we are literally about to sit down and eat omelette in a small, enclosed space. You’d be better off not wearing half a tank as armour right now.”

“I...feel more comfortable in it.”

He looked embarrassed again, so Quinn let it drop, instead showing him her armour and gun collection, along with the power armour station she had scavenged. He took particular interest in that, especially when she showed him the modified pieces she had collected.

“I never knew how to mod power armour,” she said, rooting through a huge box of parts. “Not until you showed me on the Prydwen. But I always intended to learn, so I took to stashing every little thing I could find, for later.” Quinn leant over the box, her feet leaving the floor as she delved right to the very bottom. “Aha!”

Quinn wriggled out of the box, holding her prize aloft. It was a battered T-60 helmet, covered in dents and scratches, but still intact. She held it out to him. “Here, since it was my fault yours was fucked up.”

Danse didn’t move. “Are you sure? That’s a valuable piece of equipment.”

“Take the damn thing already,” she said impatiently, but also with a grin. “My arm’s getting tired.”

He took it, staring at the old helmet like it was a newborn child. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Quinn threw the various pieces of scrap she had taken out of the box back in, and closed its lid.

Codsworth floated in, balancing a plate on each of his arms. She had scavenged an array of cutlery and plates from the houses when she had first returned to Sanctuary with Preston, managing to find a few that hadn’t been broken. Cleaning them had been difficult, her paranoia about new diseases forcing her to use Codsworth’s built in flamer to torch the dishes. The result had been a somewhat singed set of crockery before Quinn had given up and accepted she was probably going to die of dysentery anyway.

Danse raised an eyebrow at the state of the plates, but didn’t comment, accepting his with thanks and starting to eat while still standing up. He took one bite of his meal and paused, looking shell-shocked.

“Is everything alright?” Quinn asked, tucking into her own food as she sat down on her bed. Aside from the smoky zest of the cutlery, it tasted like a normal omelette to her, with a slight hint of fish to it. Codsworth had used mirelurk eggs after all.

Danse didn’t answer, but took another mouthful, chewing it very slowly before moving onto the next. While Quinn finished hers in less than two minutes, Danse took about ten, even though she was sure his food would have gone cold pretty quickly. When he eventually set down his fork, Quinn folded her arms, frowning.

“I know you’re trying to make up for this morning,” she said, “but you don’t need to force down food you don’t like.”

“No, it’s…” Danse shook his head. “It was good. More than good. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“Surely they must have had decent cooks in the Brotherhood. Or in Rivet City.”

“I’ve always considered food a necessity, not a luxury. Most wastelanders share that sentiment.”

Quinn had a sudden vision of a little boy hiding amongst piles of rubble, roasting a radroach over an open fire made from litter and rotting wood, the bug’s blood still fresh on his gaunt face. Empty packets of stale junk food slowly shrivelled in the ashy fire, while the child clutched at his stomach with burnt hands, casting fearful glances over his shoulder as the smoke from the fire reached high into the sky.

“Would you like some more?” Quinn asked softly.

“No, but thank you.”

There was an awkward silence, broken almost immediately by Codsworth floating in and exclaiming loudly, “Ah, you’ve finished, mum!” He took the plates from Quinn and Danse. “Was it to your liking?”

“Yes, thank you Codsworth. You know your cooking is the best.”

“Oh, I’m blushing!” he said, and left the room. She heard him outside, dousing the plates with his flamer and realised she’d never told him to _stop_ doing that. Quinn chuckled to herself.

“So, what’s your next move?” Danse asked her as the sound of the dishes being purged by fire went away.

Quinn shrugged, though she knew exactly what she was going to do. Whether it was a good idea to bring Danse along was another matter entirely. Could she trust him not to hurt anyone? Could she trust him to listen to her? Then again, he hadn’t attacked Nick after she left for the Institute. But…

A long sigh escaped her lips, and she lay back on her bed, staring at the grotty ceiling. She had asked him to trust her, without question, and he had done so. Maybe it was time she returned the favour.

“I’m going into the Glowing Sea,” she said. “I have something I need to deliver.” Technically, she had two things to deliver, but she could deal with Sturges’ request later.

“Alone?” Even without looking at him, the concern in his voice was clear.

“That was the plan, yeah.”

“I’m going with you.”

Quinn closed her eyes. The idea of traversing the murky, lethal wastes of the south west was not something she wanted to do alone, but it was not because of her own personal safety. As it stood, she didn’t really care what happened to her now. But the promise she had made… In the face of Father’s crimes, it seemed _paramount_ that she help now. His sins were her burden, and she had to repent for them. She had to make it there alive. After that...well, it didn’t really matter.

“I’m going to save someone,” she said, finally, shifting her weight on the lumpy mattress. “You might take issue with him.”

“Why?”

“He’s a super mutant.”

Nothing.

Quinn opened her eyes and sat up, wondering if Danse had heard her. One look at him told her, yes, he most certainly had. He’d gone rigid, staring at her with an expression that indicated a huge, internal battle was going on in his head at that very moment. Fury was blazing from his eyes, which were fixed on her so fiercely she wanted to look away. But reluctance was there as well, holding him back.

“Don’t hesitate on my account,” she said. “I’m not friends with you for your legendary use of tact.”

Still, Danse did not speak. He looked as if he was about to explode. Quinn sighed.

“Look, let me at least explain.” She dug her hand into a pouch at her hip and pulled out a small, metal cylinder. The tiny glass panel revealed it to be half full of a transparent, blue liquid. “This is a cure for...whatever you call it. Super mutantcy.”

“A cure for the FEV virus?” Danse asked sharply, his eyes widening.

Quinn pulled a face. “Well, not exactly. It’s an experimental serum that _could_ cure one particular strain of the...the effie-vee virus.” She put it back in her pouch, not liking the look Danse was giving it. “It won’t work on everyone.”

“We should take it back to the Brother-”

_“No.”_

“Why not? They could study it and make more! That vial could wipe out those abominations for good!”

Quinn knew this would come up. She _knew_ it. This was the reason she hadn’t told him about her promise before she went to the Institute. Maybe she should have just left for the Glowing Sea without letting him know where she was going. It would have been easier.

Easier, but not right.

“Because,” Quinn said, forcing herself to stay patient, “the scientist who created it needs it first. He became a super mutant to escape the Institute. He didn’t agree with what they were making him do, and he went on the run for his life. But he didn’t have time to bring all his work with him, and now he’s slowly losing himself. If he doesn’t get this serum, he won’t be able to stop the change from affecting his mind. So I’m going to take this to him, and I’m going to try to cure him.”

“I can’t believe you’re-”

“Think about it!” she said, irritation flaring up inside her. “If the creator can be saved, then a cure is much more likely to be made! You don’t even know if this serum will work. What can Brotherhood scientists do with a faulty serum?”

“Probably more than either of us could understand,” Danse shot back, scowling.

Quinn massaged her temples. “Look, if I save him, he’s still going to be on the run from the Institute. You could try to recruit him into the Brotherhood. I’m sure the protection Elder Maxson could offer him, along with all of technology at the Brotherhood’s disposal, will be more than enough of an incentive for him.”

Danse considered this, his frown disappearing slightly. “You make a good point.”

“Damn straight I do.” She stood up and stretched. “I’m going into the Glowing Sea, with or without your help. But if you _do_ want to help, then I need you to promise that you won’t hurt Virgil.”

“Virgil?”

“Sorry, that’s his name: Doctor Brian Virgil. Do you promise?”

“I…” Danse’s scowl deepened.

_“Do you promise?”_

Danse hesitated, but then nodded. “Yes, I promise. But if he makes one false move, promise or not, I will gun him down.”

Quinn put a hand to her forehead and sighed. “I suppose I can’t expect any more than that. Come on, let’s head back and get my power armour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas dragonifyoudare (tumblr) and waiting4morning (ffnet). They've done an amazing job, as always. Thank you to solesurvivorfox, for sending me nice, uplifting messages when I was feeling really down on Friday.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left reviews. Love you all. :)
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!


	18. Danse Macabre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternative title to this chapter is 'Danse Macabre de l'Ecorcheur', a tribute to all the hard work two tumblr users did for me in trying to create a clever title for this chapter. Explanation/translation (spoilery) is at the bottom of this chapter.

 

Hancock and Piper pounced on Quinn the second she returned to Sanctuary, the two of them puffing on cigarettes, a cloud of smoke following them as Piper said, “Blue, we need to talk. _Now.”_ She jabbed her thumb in the direction of one of the old houses, glaring.

Quinn sighed. This had been expected of course - Piper wasn’t the kind of woman to just let things drop. But Hancock’s involvement was surprising. Normally he was too high to get worked up about anything.

_Best get it out of the way now._ With a nod to Danse she said, “I’ll be a minute,” and trailed after her friends. She glanced back as she walked away and saw his eyes were fixed on Hancock, his gun tight in his hands.

_Well, at least he’s not-_

“You wanna tell me what the hell is going on, sunshine?”

Hancock’s abrupt question snapped her out of her musing, and she found herself greeted by the ugly glare on his face. Quinn blinked. “What?”

His laugh was about as pleasant as his expression. “Oh come on, don’t insult my intelligence. You come back from that place screaming and ready to burn down the settlement, and then the next morning you’re avoiding everyone except the tin can?” He sneered in the direction of Danse. “Startin’ to feel a little bit out of the loop here, and I don’t like it. What, you don’t trust the ghoul anymore?”

“No. I just don’t feel ready to talk,” Quinn said. “And last I checked, Piper’s not a ghoul and she don’t know shit either. So what’s really got you pissed off?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Piper snapped before Hancock could reply. “We’re supposed to be your friends, Blue! Why are you shutting us out like this?”

Quinn groaned, rubbing her face in frustration and then clutching at her hair. They were so demanding. Couldn’t they just be like Preston and leave her alone?

“Why do you care so much?” she said finally, letting her hands drop. “Why do you see me going through hell and want to know every fucking detail?” She rounded on Piper. “Do you want to write another story about the frozen vault dweller?” Ignoring Piper’s shocked expression, she turned to Hancock. “And you-”

“We want to help you, _asshole,”_ Hancock snarled. “Though I’m starting to wonder why we’re bothering.”

“How could you think I’d want to talk about this for a story?” Piper whispered.

Quinn deflated, wishing the earth would swallow her. Here she was again, taking it out on other people. She hung her head. “I’m sorry.”

She tried to retreat, but Piper caught hold of her arm and pulled her close. Quinn fell into her embrace and hugged her tight, thinking she might cry for the billionth time that day. Instead, the emptiness greeted her, her body too far gone for tears. There was a long pause, and she sensed an unspoken conversation passing between Piper and Hancock.

“Blue,” Piper said in Quinn’s ear, “you can tell us anything, y’know. We love you.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Hancock, but Quinn felt his hand press on her back, rubbing it gently. “Come on, let’s go inside and have a beer.”

“Okay.” Quinn released her friend and straightened up, feeling defeated as she let Hancock and Piper lead her into the house. They sat her down, and Piper bustled around in a cupboard, pulling out dusty bottles from an even dustier shelf. She came back and handed out the bottles, which turned out to be Nuka-Cola. Hancock scowled.

“No booze?”

“No,” Piper said, prising off the bottle cap with the edge of the battered coffee table and then putting the cap in her pocket. “If you ask me, you both drink too much.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow at Hancock and opened her bottle on the table too. “Best do what the lady says, Mayor.”

Hancock grumbled as he opened his Nuka-Cola and swigged from it. “I can spice things up my own way.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jet canister, opening it and inhaling, a dreamy look spreading across his face.

“Hancock, is this really the moment?” Piper hissed, glaring at him.

“It’s always the moment in my opinion.” He giggled to himself and sat up in his chair, looking as pointedly at Quinn as he could manage, his eyes unfocused. “Right, to business.”

Quinn bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the barrage of questions.

“How can we help you?”

Quinn opened her eyes to find Hancock leaning forward and smiling. She licked her lips nervously. “You’re not going to ask me what happened?”

“We tried that already, didn’t we? I mean, if you want to talk I’m all ears - well, I would be if I had any - but I get the impression that you’re…”

“It’s like you said,” Piper interjected, shrugging. “You’re not ready. But I’m sure you’ll tell us when you are.”

Quinn thought her heart might burst with gratitude. “I’d like to just...I don't want to think. I want a distraction. But I can’t. I need to-”

“You don’t need to do anything.” Hancock put his feet on the coffee table, his smile slightly lopsided now. “You don’t need to go anywhere, or save anyone, or...or any of the other usual shit that you do.” He took a deep puff of the jet, and then pulled out another jet inhaler, tossing it to her. “But you do need to stop for a little bit. _Relax._ So how about I tell you what happened in Goodneighbor after you left? The airplane wing had to come from somewhere.”

He launched into the tale without further ado, and in seconds both Piper and Quinn were in stitches, howling with laughter at his escapades across the Commonwealth to get his sled of scrap to Sanctuary. Quinn would never have expected it to involve a game of irradiated strip poker, an extremely confused molerat dressed as Jangles the Moon Monkey, and a plunger, and yet Hancock delivered.

“I don’t know how the Gunners thought they could beat me at radiation endurance,” Hancock cackled, speaking over the giggles of the two women. “Maybe they thought I’d turn feral before they lost their hair.”

“Speaking of funny,” Piper said when she’d calmed down enough to form coherent words, “you’ll never guess what happened in Diamond City when I first met Paladin Danse.”

“Oh, Piper,” Quinn giggled, knowing what was coming.

“The tin can, funny?” Hancock snorted. “Now this I gotta hear.”

Piper relayed the story of Danse throwing the beer bottle, and the chaos that followed, Quinn enthusiastically filling in the gaps of Piper’s knowledge as she went. When they reached the part where the light fell through the ceiling of the store below, Hancock snorted cola out of his nose cavity. At that precise moment, Preston stepped into the house and patted Hancock on the back as the ghoul choked and spluttered into his bottle.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting on the sofa next to Quinn as Piper passed him a Nuka-Cola.

Nick was the last to arrive, drawn over by the noise of Preston and Quinn playfully bickering about whether the Prydwen or the Castle were better as a headquarters, while Piper and Hancock egged them both on.

“Take away the vertibirds and the fuel, and all you have is a big, metal balloon, ready to be popped,” Preston said, before swigging the dregs of his cola.

“No, the Prydwen is a complete package, ‘birds and all,” Quinn argued back. “Same with the Castle and its artillery. Only difference is, the Prydwen can _move._ Drink, Nick? _”_

Nick rolled his eyes and declined, but took the opportunity to quickly change the subject; he entertained all of them with tales of his old cases that left Quinn on the edge of her seat, desperate to know what happened next. It was only when she had drained her third Nuka-Cola, she realised hours had passed.

“Shit,” she said, standing up. “I told Danse I’d only be a few minutes.”

“I invited him in,” Preston said quickly, “but he said he’d leave you with us for now while he kept an eye on the area.”

“I said I’d only be a few minutes,” Quinn repeated, a little more desperately.

“So?” Hancock wheezed from his chair. “Let the tin can patrol.”

“We’re going to the Glowing Sea. I can’t leave him hanging around when I have shit to organise for the trip.”

A heavy silence fell over the gathering.

“The Glowing Sea, kid?” Nick asked, frowning. “After you just got back?”

“Well, we’ll go with you,” Piper said, also getting to her feet. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

“No.”

“No?” several voices said at once. Quinn looked from face to worried face and shook her head.

“No. It's too dangerous.”

“Yeah, no shit,” said Hancock, frowning. “You think we want to go to take in the great, irradiated countryside?”

“General,” Preston said, his usual gentle tone spiked with concern, “at the very least let Hancock and Nick go with you. The radiation won't affect them. Though I'd rather we all went.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled across the room.

Quinn folded her arms. “Nick, do you have power armour?”

“No?” he replied, clearly confused.

“Hancock, do you have power armour?”

“No, why the fuck would I ha-?”

“Piper?” Quinn asked, interrupting the ghoul. “Preston?”

They both shook their heads.

“I thought as much.” Quinn lifted up her shirt and revealed the scar in her side. She’d taken the bandages off while she’d been in the Institute, letting one of the doctors there check it over at Father’s request. Quinn held her shirt up while her friends peered at the injury, and looked at each of them in turn. “I ran into a deathclaw on my trip here, and it did that to me _through_ my power armour with a glancing blow. If it hadn’t been for Danse pulling me out of the way, I’d have been dead.”

Quinn let her shirt drop back down. “The Glowing Sea is teeming with them. Danse and I can probably sneak past them thanks to the dust storms, but if we’re spotted, we’re going to have a hell of a fight on our hands. I know you want to help me, and I appreciate the sentiment, I really do...but sentiment and good intentions won’t stop you being ripped apart by whatever is lurking in that hellhole. I don’t want…” Her voice broke. She shook her head and continued, speaking forcefully. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“Kid, I went with you the first time and you didn’t have a problem,” Nick said. “What’s changed since then?”

“Experience,” Quinn replied. “And caution. I had no idea what I was really getting myself into when I went with you. It was sheer luck we didn’t run into anything nasty while we were there. But I’m starting to take the Commonwealth seriously at last, and that means none of you are going with me.”

“But the tin man is,” Hancock muttered.

“He has power armour,” Quinn said, feeling her patience wear thin again. “You don’t. There’s nothing else to it.”

_Oh, but there is,_ she thought to herself. _And you know there is. You’re scared. You’re scared what you might do if you’re alone, if he’s not there to keep you in line. The others can’t stop you, or won’t stop you; they like the chaos or they like you too much to challenge you. You’re nothing by yourself - just a frightened, broken girl who needs someone to stop her going over the edge. Stupid, weak bitch, you-_

“Quinn?”

Quinn blinked. Everyone was staring at her. She coughed. “I’m going, and that’s pretty much the end of the discussion. Please try to understand why.”

“We understand,” Piper sighed. “Doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

They all nodded - even Hancock, though he was somewhat reluctant about it. Quinn smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, and she really meant it. “For trusting me, and...for all of this.” She gestured towards the empty bottles of cola. “I needed a break.”

“Just make sure you come back here when you’re done traipsing across that death trap,” Preston said, before hurriedly adding, “General.”

Quinn laughed. “I promise I’ll return to Sanctuary afterwards. None of you need to wait for me, though. If you’re not here, I’ll visit you in Diamond City and Goodneighbor to let you know I’m alright.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Nick said, shifting in his chair, “I’ll wait.”

“Me too,” chimed in Piper.

“Preston, what’s your chem trade like over here?” Hancock asked. Preston shrugged.

“Reasonable, I guess. Trashcan Carla needs a new customer since Mama Murphy stopped using.”

“Poor old girl.” Hancock sighed, shaking his empty jet inhaler and then tossing it onto the coffee table. “It’ll do, though. I’m staying.” He shot Quinn a teasing grin and she returned it.

“You ass,” she said to Hancock, picking up her own unopened jet inhaler and playfully throwing it at him.

Her friends. They’d do anything for her. It struck Quinn how attached she’d become to them all in such a short space of time. Ending the reunion brought her no joy, but the more time she wasted, the higher the risk that Virgil would be beyond helping when she reached him.

The cool dusk air was like a soothing balm to her skin as she stepped outside. She stretched and made her way over to the power armour station, waving to Danse in the distance. He nodded and stomped over as she inspected her armour. In all honesty, Quinn had completely forgotten that it had been damaged until she’d mentioned the deathclaw attack to the others, but she couldn’t find the hole. Her hands explored the metal, hoping to find what her eyes could not see, and felt a bump in the smooth surface. On closer inspection, Quinn realised the hole had been mended, the welding marks the only sign there had been anything there at all.

“Ready to go, soldier?” Danse asked as he approached. “I took the liberty of acquiring extra provisions and medicine. Should anything happen, we have enough stimpaks, radaway, and rad-x to carry us through an emergency.”

“My armour’s been repaired,” Quinn said, glancing at him. “Do you know who did it?”

“Yes,” Danse said.

There was a beat of silence. Quinn raised her eyebrows at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“It was...I did it.” His voice was perfectly neutral, and it was impossible to read him with his new helmet on, but he shifted on the spot slightly. “I take it you find the repairs sufficient?”

“Yes, they’re perfect. And I’m grateful, but why?” Quinn indicated to his helmet. “You could have worked on your own armour, or told me to get my ass out here instead of gossiping.”

“Recreational time is important for morale,” Danse replied. “Something you’ve been lacking as of late. Besides, my helmet is functional. Your armour was not.”

Quinn glanced at her power armour and then back to Danse, a small smile spreading across her lips. “I see. Well...thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Her smile lingered as she climbed into her power armour; it was the kind of smile that would cling for hours, if undisturbed by reality. But then the familiar claustrophobic feeling flared up as the steel embraced her, before being replaced by the delicious sensation of power. Quinn didn’t mind. She knew the smile would come back later, when she remembered this moment again.

Picking up her weapon, she walked past Danse, slowing down just enough for him to fall into step with her, and together they headed off towards the bridge that led back into the wasteland.

\--

The trip south was relatively uneventful compared to the fiasco that had been their journey to Sanctuary. Days passed without any real incident, the most taxing event being a brief battle with a group of feral ghouls as Quinn and Danse drew closer to the Glowing Sea.

The earth grew cracked and scorched, the steel grey sky decaying into a murky yellow, thick fog and dust choking the atmosphere as it pressed down upon the landscape. Charred trees stuck out of the ground like splintered, blackened bones, and the twisted corpses of cars and buildings lay strewn in every direction, some swallowed almost whole by the oozing lakes of waste.

_This is it,_ Quinn thought as they picked their way quietly through the ruins, making sure to avoid any and every sign of movement. _This is the festering wound of Boston. This is where the city died, rotting from the inside out._

Quinn had never approached the Glowing Sea from the north before. There was something about the area that whispered memories to her, but she couldn’t place the feeling. Everything had become so warped from the bombs, it was near impossible to tell where about in Boston she even was, never mind what had once stood here.

As they walked down a slope, Quinn spied something in the distance. It was a large, hulking mass, too still to be a creature, too square to be a natural formation. She waved to catch Danse's attention, and the two of them made their way forward to investigate.

It turned out to be a church spire, snapped off at the base, lying wounded on the ground. The tiles had been burnt so badly their original colour was long since gone, but the stonework was still intact. Quinn recognised the beautiful masonry almost instantly. How could she not, when she’d spent months picking out the perfect place?

“Oh my god,” she said, reaching out and running her hand over the stone.

“What is it?” Danse asked.

Quinn didn't reply, but glanced around, spotting the remains of a roof, almost completely buried by the wasteland dirt. She ran over to it, locating a large hole in the shingles, and peered inside. A tree had fallen through the other side, the trunk reaching down to the dingy church below.

“Quinn?”

Still ignoring him, Quinn walked back towards the spire, and then activated the release on her armour, wriggling out before it had even fully opened. She picked up her gun and sprinted towards the other opening.

Danse ran after her. “What are you doing? Stop!”

“Just stay there!” Quinn yelled over her shoulder. “I need to check something!”

“Soldier, you risk radiation and physical harm. Get back in your armour _now!”_

The tone of his voice was so forceful, Quinn nearly buckled under the weight of his authority. She slowed, but then realised Danse was catching up with her. If he had it his way, she would be denied. She _had_ to get inside the church.

Quinn put on a final burst of speed and clambered in, sliding down the tree trunk and out of Danse’s reach. “This probably won't hold my weight with the armour,” she called up to him. “But I'll only be a minute. I just need to grab something. Stay there.”

Tuning out his protests, Quinn made her way down, the wood surprisingly worn and smooth between her hands, the bark long since stripped away. Once or twice she lost her footing, but managed to cling on, dangling over the drop. It was a long way to the bottom, but she couldn’t stop. Too much was at stake.

Pulling herself back onto the tree trunk, Quinn carefully made her way across to the stairs, and looked around. It was almost nothing like she remembered, the shape of its husk the only thing that held any connection to her past. Piles of ash and dirt littered the floor so thickly, the stone was no longer visible. At the front of the church were two sets of stairs, one on each wall, framing the main door. They had originally led up to more seating. Up here, and on the ground, burnt church pews law in neat little rows, apparently undisturbed by the church’s descent into the earth. At the back was a small stand where Father Jessop had read his sermons, and an old, antique wooden table that had once held candles and other holy items. Quinn was surprised it had survived at all. But that was irrelevant - what lay behind it was more important. Behind it, she would hopefully find her prize.

Quinn had barely moved forward when a terrible roar sounded from outside, so loud and familiar it made her blood run cold.

_Oh shit._

There was a brief burst of gunfire, and then a crash as something fell through the ceiling, its fall broken only by the staircase opposite to hers. The thing went straight through them, sending splintered wood everywhere, and a huge dust cloud blew up as it hit the floor, the impact softened by the dirt. It was only when the thing coughed and spluttered, that Quinn realised it was Danse. Before she could open her mouth to call to him, her words died in her throat as two large, clawed hands curled over the edge of the newly formed hole.

The deathclaw stared down at Danse, and in one fluid movement, dragged itself through the roof and leapt down. It skidded as it hit the ground floor, its tail whipping around and taking a chunk out of the old, stone walls. Danse struggled to his feet, clearly dazed, and raised his gun.

“Quinn!” he shouted, not taking his eyes off the creature as it slowly approached him. “It hasn’t seen you. Get out of here now. Go!”

The deathclaw made a guttural hissing noise, widening its arms as Danse backed into a corner. It tensed, preparing to strike, when a bullet pinged off the side of its head. With another inhuman sound, it turned, its hollow eyes flitting from side to side, finally fixing on Quinn.

“Leave him alone, you fu-” Quinn began, but cut herself off with a yell as the deathclaw launched itself up the stairs with no warning. She managed to get out of the way, barely, and shrieked as she toppled over the banister, hitting the ashy earth below. The wind was knocked out of her, but Quinn paid it no mind, adrenaline surging through her, her brain screaming for her to move. Her legs obeyed, and Quinn scrambled to her feet as the deathclaw wrestled with the stairs - one of its feet had gone straight through the fragile wood.

“Quinn, behind me, now!” Danse barked.

Quinn obeyed, streaking across the tiny church as Danse moved into the aisle, taking refuge behind him. The enormity of their situation was quickly becoming apparent; both sets of stairs - and the only way out - were now blocked, and she was without her power armour. This deathclaw was smaller than the one they had encountered near the Slog, but still bigger than the one she had fought in Concord; one blow would be enough to kill her.

The deathclaw howled in frustration as both Quinn and Danse opened fire, some of their bullets piercing its thick hide. It wasn’t enough. Most of them harmlessly ricocheted away, hitting walls and pews, some of them even bouncing back.

“Christ. Reloading!” Quinn shouted, just as the creature wrenched itself free and tumbled back down the stairs. It righted itself before it had even hit the bottom step, and paused on all fours, sizing the two of them up. The dark, glittering eyes settled on Quinn, and in that second she knew she was going to die.

Danse followed the deathclaw’s line of sight, and as it lunged, threw himself in front of it, yelling, “Move, soldier!”

Steel and monster collided, and the paladin was knocked straight off his feet. It would have been the end of Quinn, had the deathclaw not tripped over Danse as it struck out at her. Quinn saw a flash of claws, and a hot, wet sensation spread across the right side of her face as she stumbled back, knocking clumsily into the table. The old piece of furniture buckled, sending her sprawling, and her vision on one side suddenly went black as the wet seeped into her eye. She lay there, dazed for a moment, and then came to her senses, rolling to her feet and jumping back.

The deathclaw, it seemed, had forgotten all about her, now distracted by the large, metal soldier that was fighting it with everything he had. Danse’s gun lay forgotten in the aisle where it had been knocked away, and instead he had his combat knife, trying to break through the scaly skin on the deathclaw’s arm as it picked him up and began slamming him hard into the walls and floor.

Quinn dove for the rifle, barely registering the comfortable warmth of its metal exterior as she snatched it up and began firing at the deathclaw’s head. It ignored her, holding a writhing Danse dangling by the throat as it raised its free hand, until a shot hit it in the eye. There was a shriek of pain, and Danse plummeted to the ground like a stone, almost being trampled by the deathclaw as it shook its head and scraped at the dirt with its claws, its snout close to the floor.

It glanced up, a gooey mess dripping down its face from its eye socket, the other eye blazing, locked onto Quinn. But as it took a step towards her, Danse jumped forward, clamping his arms around the top of its neck and driving the blade of his combat knife deep into the soft flesh of its throat.

Again and again, the knife plunged in, Danse barely holding on as the deathclaw tried to shake him off, gurgling and screeching, its tail smashing from side to side. Quinn rolled out of the way, retreating back as the deathclaw’s struggles sent pews soaring in the chaos, before it gave a final, rasping groan as it collapsed on the floor.

Danse paid this no attention, still stabbing frantically at its neck, seemingly unaware that it was dead. Blood and bits of meat flew everywhere as the knife fell back and forth in its frenzied arc, carving its way through flesh and bone without mercy.

“Danse!” Quinn cried, rushing over and edging around until she stood behind him. Taking the arm that was still clutching at the deathclaw, she tried to pull him away, but he wrenched himself free, almost shoving her over as he stood up.

The helmet she had given him was a mess of battered metal. Danse yanked at the emergency release catch and dragged it off, every movement filled with ferocity. His face was pale, bruised, and shining with sweat, and he stood there panting, staring at the ruined piece of headgear, before hurling it away with a strangled yell. It made a loud clang as it hit the boarded up door, bouncing away into a wall.

Quinn scrambled to her feet as Danse rounded on her.

“I can’t believe you did this again!”

He was covered in blood, the arm that held the combat knife worst of all. The deathclaw twitched at his feet, red seeping from its neck and being absorbed greedily into the dirt on the floor. Danse paced back and forth next to the body, gesturing so wildly with the knife, Quinn almost took an involuntary step back.

“Danse,” she said weakly, alarmed by this sudden burst of rage. “Calm down. I’m sorry, okay? I fucked up. I didn’t think-”

“But that’s precisely the problem!” Danse yelled, and this time she did step away. He no longer looked like the man she knew; he seemed wild and out of control. He turned to her, eyes bulging, face red, and shaking so badly she could see it despite his power armour. “You don’t _think._ You don’t _care._ You don’t give a damn what you do, so long as it meets your own needs. You’re just like Cutler, running off without a thought about what it does to the people around you. You-you…”

Danse stopped.

There was no other word to describe it. He juddered to a halt as if someone had turned a switch off at the back of his head. When the knife tumbled from his hand with a muffled thud, however, the noise seemed to animate him again. Staggering, he fell against the nearby wall, his arm blindly groping out as he stared past her.

“What’s wrong?” Quinn asked, her heart racing. The change in his demeanour was jarring, catching her off-guard. “Are you hurt?”

“...put them out of their misery,” he mumbled, answering a question that Quinn couldn’t hear. He slowly sunk down to one knee, now leaning his entire body weight into the wall, the metal of his armour leaving deep grooves in the stone as he slid to the floor.

“Danse!” Quinn ran over, but managed to stop herself from shaking him. Giving the church a quick glance around to make sure the fight hadn’t attracted more enemies, she moved behind him and twisted the valve on his armour. It cracked open with a hiss, and she pulled at his arm, trying to get him free. Eventually he complied, pushing himself out just far enough so that he toppled out backwards onto her, and then shuffled up against the wall, his eyes glazing over again.

Nothing she did triggered a response. He sat, slumped, his breathing heavy and ragged as incoherent words dripped from his mouth. Sweat poured off his paled skin, the only patches of colour being the dark shadows under his eyes, and as she took hold of his arms, he shook beneath her palms. Wherever he was, it seemed like Quinn would have to fight to bring him back. She ran to his armour, pulling out the radaway and rad-x, and tried to give him some, but Danse seemed completely unaware, the medicine falling away from his mouth no matter how she attempted to administer it.

Quinn quickly swallowed some rad-x herself, and then took a dose of radaway. The radiation in this area was strong, and she’d been without the protection of her armour long enough. But the Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy ticked on, the sinister crackle a countdown. Time was running out; there was only so much medicine, and Danse...how long did he have in his condition?

“Danse,” Quinn mumbled, her hands gripping tight on his shoulders. “Come on, Danse. Don’t do this to me, please. _Please.”_

Danse continued to stare blankly ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of the chapter. Those of you who follow me on tumblr may have noticed my bouts of anxiety this week, followed by a work night out on Saturday. Both of those interfered with the release of this chapter. Thank you to those who reviewed - your words were a nice pickmeup that kept me going this week.
> 
> The Forgotten Church is a real place in the game, and I highly recommend checking it out. I stumbled across it by accident about two months ago and knew I had to include it in the fic somehow.
> 
> Deathclaw blood is never really mentioned anywhere, and honestly when I'm killing a deathclaw the last thing I'm thinking of is 'Hmm, what colour is its blood?' while it rips my face off. So, I did a bit of digging. The deathclaw is a mutated Jackson Chameleon, and lizards have red blood due to the way oxygen is carried in the blood. It can be assumed that deathclaws have not lost this very basic building block of their genetic makeup, and so their blood is also red.
> 
> Thank you to dragonifyoudare (tumblr) and waiting4morning (FFnet) for their invaluable beta help. Thank you to lumeha and sheallia (tumblr) for their patient work in explaining all the French grammar to me for my title (and answering so many of my stupid questions over every small detail).
> 
> Sadly, after all that research and all the billions of questions, my beta said the simple, snappy title that I had first come up with was the one that worked best. But in my heart, the alternative title to this chapter is Danse Macabre de l'Ecorcheur, a tribute to all the hard work lumeha and sheallia did for me. :)
> 
> An explanation:
> 
> Danse Macabre means 'Dance of Death' in French. Because of the spelling, I found myself wanting to be clever and linking a deathclaw into Danse Macabre, to play on the events of the chapter. Ecorcheur is the French word used in-game for deathclaw in Fallout 4. After much discussion, lumeha gave me this lovely explanation:
> 
> "So, "Danse Macabre de l'Ecorcheur" would mean "Danse of Death of the Deathclaw". it characterizes the "danse of death" as being a thing directly linked to the Deathclaw."
> 
> So. That is where the alternative title comes from!


	19. Through a Glass, Darkly

The minutes ticked by.

Quinn sat opposite Danse, her nerves mounting as silence reigned; all she could hear was his strained breathing and the howling of the wind outside.

What was he experiencing? He certainly wasn’t here with her, right now, in the present.

Memories of Nate, vacant and twitching, surfaced to the front of her mind. A flashback, the doctor had called it, after Nate had crashed the car on a trip back from the Super Duper Mart, a screaming, pregnant Quinn in the passenger seat.

A flashback, where he saw his friends die, Crofts’ blue eye, _“piercing into me, telling me to join her.”_ That confession, when it had finally come out, had chilled her to the bone. But even that had taken months. Shaun had been born by the time Nate had told her the truth of his nightmares.

Quinn shivered and turned her attention back to Danse. So what had caused this? For Nate, anything from loud noises to high levels of stress were enough of a trigger. The day of the first flashback, though, they’d been arguing about his irritable, distant behaviour. A car had cut him off, beeping its horn as it went and taking him by surprise. Nate had frozen, his eyes going blank as he’d started to shake, and Quinn had lunged for the wheel at the last second.

It could have been much worse. She could have lost Shaun.

A horrible feeling crept over her. The fight with the deathclaw had been her doing. Danse had been relatively fine before that. A little bit pissy, perhaps, but that was usual for him. Then suddenly, the battle...and now this. It had come from nowhere. One minute he had been shouting, and then nothing. Quinn took his limp hands in her own and squeezed them, tracing the rough calluses of his palms with her thumbs.

_I did this to him._

It had never occurred to her that Danse could be vulnerable. He was such a strong person, stronger than she was. The idea that he could struggle with anything like this felt alien to her. And yet here he was.

_The nightmares_ , Quinn thought, shaking her head. _The way he doesn’t like to sleep. The way he can’t talk about things that bother him. I’m an idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. It was all there, right in front of me, but I was so wrapped up in my own bullshit, I didn’t see it. I didn’t think. I didn’t care._

Selfish, selfish, _selfish_. She knew he suffered from bad dreams, had even gone so far as to make the connection back to Nate’s nightmares. But other than forcing him to sleep, had she done anything about it? Had she tried to help him at all?

No. She hadn’t.

Instead, she’d dragged him through hell and back, ignoring every warning and word of advice he’d given her. Well, now she was paying for her stupidity, just as he’d said she would. Looking at him now, so detached from everything around him, Quinn felt ashamed of her earlier thoughts at Sanctuary, that losing him would mean nothing to her. What bullshit. The terror that held Quinn in place was so raw, she could barely breathe. She was frightened for him - and for herself; Danse would be the final nail in the coffin.

Quinn gripped at his cold, twitching fingers, her breathing shallow and hard. She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs, but it didn’t matter. The Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy was ticking away menacingly. What if she couldn't get him out of this? What happened if they ran out of radiation medicine?

_We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Focus on him. Help him. Bring him back._ Quinn sat in front of him, rocking on the spot, talking gently to him. She repeated his name as often as she could, reminding him where he was, who he was - it was just memories that he was in, and it wasn’t real. The worst had happened long ago, and all he had to do was remember where he was right now. Time stretched into oblivion, minutes feeling like hours as Quinn talked and talked until her mouth went dry.

Danse’s hands suddenly clamped down on her own and he took a great, shuddering breath. As his eyes met hers, Quinn bit back a yell of relief and the urge to launch herself into his arms.

“Paladin.” She gave him a weak smile.

Danse didn’t say anything, but looked around, blinking, before wiping the sweat off his face with trembling hands. He took a few deep breaths and then said, “That’s...never happened before. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Quinn replied, shaking her head. “I didn’t listen to you, even though I promised I would. I-”

“It’s fine,” he said bluntly, and tried to stand up. Quinn placed her hands on his shoulders and forced him to sit back down, though they both knew he was strong enough to carry on if he really wanted to. It was like trying to convince a boulder to move.

“It’s not fine.” She was the one shaking now, but she paid it little attention. It would pass. “It’s far from fine. You never told me things were this bad, Danse. You can’t ignore something like this.”

“I can, and I will.” He did stand up this time, brushing her hands off him when she tried to stop him. “I’m just tired. A moment of...of sleep deprivation induced delusion. Nothing to worry about.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. What did you see? Was it Cut-?”

“I’m fine!”

Quinn shrank away from Danse as his voice echoed around the ruined church. He paused, taking another deep breath, before speaking again. His tone sounded calm, but he couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice. “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, but it’s nothing to worry about. We have a mission to complete. Now let’s get out of here before something else comes along and tries to kill us. Though I recall you saying you wanted to collect something from here first?”

“I...yes.” She didn't know what to do - he was shutting her out with such finality, Quinn felt momentarily stunned.

“You’re bleeding,” he said as walked back towards his power armour, throwing the comment almost casually at her. That wasn't like him. Where was the insistence of checking the wound and cleaning it? Now it sounded like he didn't give a damn.

Quinn put a hand to her stinging face, her fingers coming away drenched in red. She suspected the cuts would scar, but she could see out of her eye, so it was unimportant right now. Danse was her focus, her concern rising with every passing moment. He was acting like nothing had happened, pushing her away in the process.

Quinn watched him as he climbed unsteadily back into his armour, dread bubbling in the pit of her stomach. As the metal shell swallowed him whole with a solid clunk, he noticed her and cast his gaze away as he snapped, “Well? Get on with it, soldier. Or was I thrown down here for nothing?”

Biting back a retort, Quinn brushed past him to the back wall of the church, kicking up dirt as she walked. Bits of dust and sand from above rained down as she approached her target, and Quinn cast a wary glance up at the sagging ceiling. How long until this place was buried entirely? How long until it collapsed? Years? Months? Minutes?

She dismissed the thought. _I’m here now. If I hurry, then the structural integrity won’t matter, will it?_

Her eyes scanned the cracked and shattered photograph frames hanging crookedly on the back wall. One or two had survived the centuries, clinging to their designated places, but the rest had fallen to the floor. Whether this was through time or her recent dance with the deathclaw, Quinn didn’t know, but she couldn't see what she wanted. She turned her attention to the pile of splintered wood and shards of glass at her feet instead. Taking care not to slice her hands, Quinn rooted through until she unearthed something more precious than shelter in a radstorm.

Nate smiled up at her from the depths of the peeling, singed photograph; next to him was her own face, mirrored in the past, carefree and joyful. He wore a cheap, rented suit, just about fitting his lanky frame, while she was drowned by her borrowed dress. The bride and groom.

_God, we look so young._

Young and happy, in love and ready to take the plunge into life’s hardships, despite the protests of everyone they knew. _Too soon! You barely know him! This will all end in tears, you’ll see!_

“Wrong,” she muttered to herself. _Eight years and a child. We survived all their doubts._ “We could have survived anything...”

“What?” Danse called to her from across the church.

“Nothing,” Quinn said quickly, beginning to tuck the photograph away. It snagged on her waistband, and she fumbled with it.

“What’s that?”

She stopped and sighed, pulling it back out; the picture had been crumpled in her haste, a sharp crease now slashed across her smiling face. Good. It sickened her to see herself, so oblivious of the road that lay ahead. Twenty-one and caught in the euphoria of love, blissfully naive of the fate that awaited her new husband. The military would ruin him, reducing him to a shell of the vibrant young man she adored so much. He would recover eventually, and they would have a few months of peace, surrounded by sweet mediocrity.

Then he would die, cold and screaming for his son.

Quinn scowled and bent the crease across her face, lengthening it so it distorted her features. The smile in the photograph still shone through.

_What a stupid girl._

Quinn traced her finger across the image of Nate, barely noticing Danse stomping over to look. There was a small silence as his eyes darted over the picture.

“Your wedding day.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah.” Quinn sniffed, the blood trickling down from her cuts tickling her nose. “We married here, right in this church. Father Jessop took a picture of every couple that had their wedding with him, and put the pictures up for everyone to see. Said he liked the memories, so he didn’t charge as much as the other churches. Like those assholes from Hopesmarch Pentecostal, with a nice stick up their asses about deposits and _‘couple backgrounds.’”_

Quinn scowled. “But Father Jessop only wanted to cover the bare minimum costs. That suited us fine. We were cheapskates all the way through.” She chuckled. “Mom wasn’t impressed. Tried to give us money for a better wedding, but we wanted to do it on our own.”

“That’s admirable.” Danse seemed fixated on the picture, though Quinn couldn’t tell what part had caught his attention. He cleared his throat and said, “You look...you seem happy.”

“Second best day of my life.”

“And the first?”

“Shaun’s birth.”

Danse glanced at her, his expression softening, before his eyes slid towards the gash on her face. “We best clean that wound before we move on. Deathclaws are not the most sanitary of creatures.”

He cracked open the medkit on his armour and took out some medical supplies, which Quinn assumed he had replenished at Trashcan Carla’s, and set about cleaning her cut. His touch was surprisingly deft and gentle, despite the armour, and he treated her with ease. It stung like hell, but Danse assured her it wasn’t deep and wouldn’t need stitches.

“You’ll likely have a scar, though,” he went on as he applied a gauze bandage to the cut above her eye, and another to the cut below it. The bandage puckered her skin and felt odd when she tried to move her mouth. Danse watched her pull a series of faces as she tested out the gauze, and with an air of barely concealed amusement said, “You were lucky you weren’t blinded.”

“I was lucky I had you with me. Thank you.”

He grunted in response, but she saw the little tinge of pink appear on his cheeks. The breakdown seemed like a distant memory, and for a second, Quinn thought everything really was back to normal. But once the wound was cleaned and dressed, a strange cold seemed to sweep over Danse, and he withdrew from her again, stepping back and avoiding her eye.

“Let’s get out of here. If we even can. I don’t know if that tree can support the weight of my armour.” Danse glanced up at the ceiling, frowning.

“It’s worth a try,” Quinn replied, suddenly feeling alone, despite his presence. Why was he distancing himself from her? Was he embarrassed? Angry? _What?_

“You better go first.” He gestured towards the tree.

“Okay,” Quinn said with a nod, “but wait until I'm suited up before you follow.” She made her way up the stairs, skirting around the large hole created by the deathclaw, and scrambled up the tree trunk. It held her easily, and she quickly made her way back to the surface, the smooth wood no longer difficult to navigate. She pulled herself out of the church and immediately received a blast of radioactive dust into her face, the wind whipping up dirt across the landscape. Quinn choked and spluttered, tears in her eyes as she wiped away the grit, and then trotted back to her power armour, quickly climbing inside.

Readjusting her limbs to the new weight, she stomped back to the edge and called down to Danse, “Ready!”

His agility always surprised her; he vaulted over the hole with the fluidity of a pre-war athlete, and then carefully inched his way onto the tree. Quinn held her breath as it bent slightly with a low groan, but it didn’t buckle. Danse stood still for a few seconds and then - clearly satisfied it would hold - began a slow balancing act up towards the exit.

He had just made his way past the halfway point when a loud crack sounded, and Danse dropped a few centimetres down. He froze, but the cracks continued.

“Move!” Quinn bellowed.

Danse didn't need telling twice. He launched himself forward just as the trunk collapsed, his top half hitting solid ground as his legs dangled over the drop below. Slowly, he began to slide back into the church. Quinn grabbed his hand and pulled, using the bulk of her power armour to counter the weight of Danse’s as best she could, the strain making her muscles scream in protest. He used his free arm to push himself up, and managed to swing a leg onto the exterior of the church. With a final grunt of effort, both he and Quinn tumbled down the slope outside into the Glowing Sea, the world spinning around her as she fell with a loud thud.

After a brief bout of wheezing, Quinn caught her breath and sat up. Danse was already on his feet, checking over his gun. Ignoring the aches and pains, she slowly stood up and picked up her own rifle. It was starting to look a little worse for wear since she’d first cobbled it together, but it would do for now.

She watched as Danse squinted into the dust storm, before cracking open his medical case and taking out a dose of rad-x and radaway. The Geiger counter continued to tick, her endless companion in this deadly environment, and it occurred to Quinn that while she was now fully protected from the radiation, Danse was not. The choice she had to make was quickly becoming apparent: Virgil needed her, but if they continued, then Danse...

“Let's head back,” she said, eyeing his pale face. “We can't carry on if you don't have a helmet. The radiation-”

“We have sufficient radaway and rad-x for the trip,” Danse replied, putting away the medicine in question and returning to inspecting his rifle. “It's too much of a trek to head back now.”

“That's not the only thing I'm concerned about.” Quinn frowned at him as he continued to mess with the gun without actually doing anything to it. If she didn't know better, she’d have thought he was deliberately avoiding looking at her. Quinn brushed the thought aside and went on, “Your head will be unprotected.”

“So long as we stay low and out of trouble, it won’t be a cause for concern.”

His abrupt tone and interruptions were starting to annoy her. Quinn made a noise of irritation and tried again. “It’s my fault you lost your helmet - both of them, in fact. If there’s no need to worry, just take mine.” She began to undo the clasps on her own.

“Put it back on, soldier,” Danse snapped. “You’ve already done enough damage leaving your armour today.”

“So you’ll be okay if you don’t wear headgear, but when I don’t-”

“I don’t make a habit of taking away protection from others to serve myself. I'll be fine.”

“No, you won't,” Quinn insisted, wondering whether she should go for the low blow. Her mind decided _‘yes'_ in a matter of seconds. “I saw Haylen’s terminal at the police station. She said a man called Dawes died of a head injury because he didn't wear his-”

_“Enough.”_ The look he was giving her would have sent a behemoth running. His face was twisted in anger, his pale skin flushing deep red as his eyebrows drew together in a dark scowl. “As a paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, I don’t need a lecture from a _knight_. I am well aware of the risks, and _more_ than aware of the fate of my team members.”

Danse pointed out to the mountains in the distance. “We are miles away from Sanctuary, but according to you, we _are_ close to our goal. Turning back now could still result in a head injury if we stumble across the wrong people, or take a wrong turn. So I suggest we keep going and get this over with. Now let’s move out.”

He stomped off, and Quinn stared after him for a moment as she fixed her helmet clasps back in place, before frowning. No, he wasn’t going to get away with this so easily.

“Danse!” she shouted, running to catch up with him.

“Will you stop making an argument out of every-” he began, but Quinn cut across him.

“We’re going, I get it. You want to prove a point. Or you’re being stubborn. Or you’re just pissed off at me. Fine. I deserve it. And I know you don’t want to talk about what happened in the church-”

“Quinn-”

“But can you tell me why you won’t even _look_ at me?” Quinn pressed on, speaking loudly over him. “You’re acting like even being near me is painful. I appreciate you don’t want to discuss it, but if we’re going any further, I need to know that you’ve got my back.” She sighed. “Let me help you, for god’s sake. What’s wrong?”

Danse didn’t answer straight away. His shoulders slumped as he gazed past her, staring out at the yellow-green wasteland, choked with radiation and teeming with hidden horrors. Reluctantly, he met her eye.

“I don’t know what happened in there,” he said, clearly making an effort to maintain eye contact. “I saw…” He broke off and gave a slight shake of his head. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“No,” Quinn replied. “Not that, anyway. But this is different from the nightmares, isn’t it? You normally let me help with the nightmares.”

Danse shifted uncomfortably on the spot. “I’m not used to my teammates seeing me so weak. You told me you had confidence in me...but that…”

“That changes nothing,” Quinn said firmly. “You’re not weak, and I still believe in you. Besides, I’m not just your teammate. I’m your friend.”

Danse nodded. “I know, but I just need time to process this…incident. Better to keep moving in the meantime.”

The soldier’s mask returned, blocking out the glimmer of emotions that had briefly flickered across his weathered features: fear, worry, shame. Quinn bit her lip as he walked off, but decided not to push him any further. She would be there for him when the moment came.

* * *

“Why do you want to save this...thing?”

The church had long since been left behind, and the cave in which Virgil resided was just at the top of the hill. She could see the entrance from here, a dark wound in the mountainside.

Quinn glanced at her companion, considering the question - it was a fair thing to ask after all. She only wondered why it had taken Danse so long. Still, she paused before answering, trying to catch her breath as sweat trickled down her cheeks, stinging the gash beneath the bandages. The climb up to Virgil was proving hard work, the weight of their armour causing them to sink and slip into the silty earth.

Calling Quinn’s feelings on the matter ‘conflicted' would have been a massive understatement; she could barely make sense of it herself. All she knew was that she felt responsible. This responsibility had hit her in full force in the Institute, when she had broken into Virgil’s old lab and found a series of terminal entries and holotapes.

Torture. Murder. Atrocities.

The experiments on kidnapped wastelanders had stretched well over a century, each mutated ruin tagged and released back into the Commonwealth as a ‘success’, the failures likely disposed of in the most efficient way possible. While Father had not started the experiments, he had allowed them to continue once he had come to power. Every wastelander that had fallen prey to the hungry jaws of the super mutants since then was because of _him._ Father could have stopped it. He _should_ have stopped it.

Virgil had been the one with the conscience in the end. But not at first. It had taken years of experiments with ‘no results’ before the good doctor had come to the conclusion that the trials were a waste.

_No, that’s not fair,_ Quinn thought to herself. Virgil’s last words echoed in her head, distorted by the fuzz of the old, damaged tape.

_“What we're doing... it's not right. It needs to stop. If anyone should find this after... after I'm gone... know that I never wanted to hurt anyone. Anyone!”_

And stop it Virgil did. The lab had been a scorched mess by the time Quinn had found it. Whatever he had done, whatever he had helped to do, Virgil was sorry for it. She told Danse as much, from the experimentations to their end - she even played him the tape.

Danse looked less than impressed, his face darkening as the story unfolded.

“If this is true,” he said, wearing an expression like thunder, “then those bastards are responsible for every super mutant in the Commonwealth. That _thing_ in there is responsible for them!” He gestured at the cave entrance, which was now only a few feet away.

“You promised,” Quinn said quickly, her stomach tightening with dismay. Had she brought Virgil’s executioner right to his doorstep? “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him.”

“I did.” He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. “And I will keep to it. But in any other circumstance, that abomination would be dead before it could so much as look at me.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Danse scowled and didn’t reply as they stepped inside the cave. Shadows choked every corner, the deep dark of the crevices and nooks capable of hiding every terrible nightmare. Quinn tapped on Danse’s shoulder before they moved deeper inside, and pressed some radiation medicine into his hands. He hesitated and then nodded - his lack of a helmet had clearly slipped his mind. Once the doses were administered, they continued on. However, the moment the two turrets came into sight, Danse raised his weapon, much to Quinn’s annoyance.

 “You said you wouldn’t-” she began, talking over the hum of the turrets, but he cut her off.

_“You_ said he was slowly changing. I’m not walking into a potential ambush unprepared.” Danse stepped in front of her, holding out a hand briefly to keep her behind him, and then edged through into the main chamber first.

Quinn followed, quickly taking her helmet off. With any luck, Virgil wouldn’t be startled and attack them both on sight. She wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of the cave, and then quickly forced her face to go blank, hoping Virgil hadn’t noticed her blatant distaste.

“Well,” came a low, thick voice. “I’m glad to see the relay didn’t completely vaporise you.”

Virgil stood in the corner, adjusting the glasses perched on the edge of his meaty face, the dim, yellow lights turning his green skin a sickly, mustard colour. He glanced down at Danse, his small smile decaying into a frown. “What is this?”

“Nothing,” Quinn said hastily. “Just my friend here taking some extra precautions. Lower your weapon, Danse. We’re fine.”

Danse didn’t move. He had gone rigid, staring up at the mutated doctor, the hatred rolling off him. His hands were tight on his gun, which was pointed directly at Virgil’s head.

“Danse,” Quinn hissed, casting a nervous glance at Virgil, who was starting to look suspicious. The panic came back in full force - had it been a mistake to bring him? Maybe she’d been an idiot to think Danse could really get past his prejudices.

The paladin struggled with himself for a moment, his fingers flexing slightly, and then he lowered his rifle, stepping back and glaring up at the mutant as a muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Sorry,” Quinn said to Virgil, relief washing over her, but he shook his head.

“So long as he stays his hand, we’re fine.” Virgil paused, his brow furrowing. “Were you able to find the serum?”

“Yeah.” Quinn clicked open a compartment on her armour and pulled out the cure, holding it out to Virgil. He took it with a gentleness that did not match his size, and caressed the glass panel on the side with his thumb. He looked up at her, his eyes bright behind his dirty glasses.

“That’s it! That’s really it!” He began to pace up and down the room, messing with various pieces of equipment while letting out a stream of talk that Quinn could only describe as ‘Science Things.’ She listened to him patiently, noting that Danse was watching Virgil closely, an air of confusion hovering over him.

Quinn realised that Virgil had stopped talking, and was looking at her expectantly. She coughed. “Oh, uh, yeah. But how are you going to test it?”

“On myself, of course! That was the plan.” Virgil stopped at an intricate, brass-coloured machine, rattling about with the dials. Steam appeared from a funnel at the end, and Virgil ran the metal cylinder under it quickly, before holding it up to the dim light above. Over the space of a few seconds, the cure changed from clear blue to a murky red, before all the colour disappeared from it completely. It looked exactly like water.

Virgil nodded with a grunt of approval, and pressed a button on the side of the canister with his wide thumb. A long, thick needle shot out with a loud click. “This serum will only counteract the specific strain of FEV that I infected myself with. There’s no telling what it might do to anyone else.”

Virgil turned back to her, the long needle at the base now exposed and gleaming. Quinn shivered at the sight of it - using that thing would not be a pleasant experience, she was sure. He paused, taking a deep breath. It was odd to see a super mutant hesitating over something like an injection.

_Then again,_ she thought, _it is a huge fucking needle._

“Alright...here we go…” Virgil jammed the serum into his arm and grunted, closing his eyes. The canister automatically injected its contents into him, and he shuddered, before hastily pulling it back out and setting it aside. “Now...we wait.”

He then mumbled something about needing rest and slouched off towards a bed in the corner, flopping heavily into it without bothering to take his glasses off. Within seconds, he was snoring.

“Well, that was different,” Quinn said, turning to face Danse again. “Do you think it will wor-?”

She looked around, squinting.

Danse was gone.

* * *

Quinn found him at the mouth of the cave, the dim, yellow light of the Glowing Sea highlighting every line and scar on his weary face. She approached slowly, cautious of his recent explosive temper. The clunk of her armour alerted him to her presence, and he turned, holding the expression of a man who had nothing left in the world. He looked how she felt: hollow.

They stood together, staring out into the vast, endless wasteland in silence, the howling wind their only other companion. Something was happening – a moment where the crossroad was drawing near. Whatever her future held, Quinn sensed this was the point where she staked her claim, for better or for worse.

“There is a part of me,” Danse said suddenly, making her jump, “a shamefully large part of me that hopes the cure is nothing but a failure.”

Quinn stared at him, lost for words. The paladin, passing up a chance to end the super mutants for good?

Danse continue to gaze out into the Glowing Sea. “I chose to kill him. What if...” Danse’s eyes lowered to the ground, the agony in them indescribable. “What if I could have saved him instead?”

“Danse.” Quinn knew instantly who he was referring to, and moved closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. His hurt was so strong, it was piercing her in turn. She wished she could touch him properly, without the barriers of steel. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But if I’d just-”

_“It wasn’t your fault.”_ Quinn prayed he could feel the strength of her belief in him, of her support and her love for him, as her friend. “You did everything you could for Cutler. You pushed harder than anyone else would have, and you went after him as soon as you were able. And when you couldn’t do anymore, you put him out of his misery.” Her free hand gripped at his, squeezing it. “What were the alternatives? Let him run rampant across the wasteland as a mockery of everything he stood for?”

“The cure...”

“What cure?” Quinn said. “No one knew there was a chance of a cure. If you’d brought him back, either he’d have been shot on sight, or kept in isolation and experimented on for years. He might not have even been _sane_ after all of that trauma. You’re thinking with hindsight. You did the best thing for Cutler – the _right_ thing – and what’s right isn’t always what’s easy. He would have wanted it, rather than being left the way he was. It wasn’t your fault.”

Some of the light returned to Danse’s eyes, but he shook his head and gently tugged his arm free. “I could have done more. I could have done better.”

Helping Virgil had torn open an old, deep wound. Prodding it any further would make it worse. Quinn changed the subject. “I think we’re done here. Let’s go home.”

He gave a defeated sigh. “I thought as much.” Checking over his rifle, he reloaded it and stepped towards the cave entrance, becoming a silhouette in the light of wastes. “Back to Sanctuary it is.”

“No. I mean, we’ll go there because I promised the others I would, but when that’s done...”

Danse’s head snapped in her direction, and he moved back towards her until she could see his expression clearly again. It was a mixture of uncertainty and hope, as if he hardly dared to believe. He tried a few times to speak, his mouth opening and closing with a series of odd, croaking noises, before he cleared his throat and tentatively asked, “Do you mean...?”

Quinn smiled. “Yes. I’m staying.”

Danse’s whole face lit up with delight, a look so pure and unguarded he seemed to radiate happiness. Then he remembered himself and quickly frowned, nodding.

“Glad to hear it, soldier,” he said, serious again. But as they walked back outside into the wasteland, Quinn saw the candid grin slip back into place.

She felt content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to dragonifyoudare (tumblr) and waiting4morning (ffnet) for their invaluable beta help!
> 
> Thank you for all the reviews! I apologise for not replying to all of them. Sadly, work was hectic this week.
> 
> My sources for PTSD and PTSD related flashbacks (effects, treatment, personal feelings, and reactions to flashbacks, etc.) have been taken from the NHS website and Mind (dot) org (dot) uk. The NHS was great from a medical standpoint, and Mind was great from an impact and personal perspective. I hope I have done PTSD justice, but if anyone takes issue with my portrayal of it, please feel free to contact me and we can have a chat about it.


	20. Tinned Tomatoes

They were up to something.

Quinn had known it the second Sturges had tried to distract her while Danse talked with Piper and Preston. They had been in Sanctuary for a few days after their long journey back to the settlement. Quinn had woken up that morning to see Danse deep in conversation with the engineer.

At first she had thought nothing of it – the two of them could learn a lot from each other as far as technology and building went. But when Sturges had sidled over to her during breakfast, talking loudly about how Trashcan Carla’s brahmin had ended up stuck on top of one of the houses – _“and Carla suspects that Lemmy, but she has no proof”_ – while Danse stood talking to her friends in the distance, she knew something was up.

“Cut the crap, Sturges,” Quinn interrupted, even though she was extremely curious as to how Deacon had managed to get an animal the size of a small car on the roof with no stairs. “What are you up to?”

“I – uh – nothing,” Sturges stammered.

Quinn rolled her eyes and glanced over at Piper and Preston again. Hancock and Nick had joined the fray, and all of them were bickering with the paladin. Danse was shaking his head a lot while the others gestured at Hancock and Nick, and then at Quinn, before freezing as they realised she was watching them. Clearly, this was her cue to investigate. She got up and strolled over, giving them all a suspicious look. All of them looked decidedly shifty, with the exception of Hancock, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Alright,” she said as she drew near. “Spill it.”

“Spill what?” Nick asked innocently.

“Danse is as red as a tomato, and you’re all not trying to kill each other,” Quinn said. “So start talki-”

“What’s a tomato?” Hancock cut in.

“Pre-war vegetable,” Nick said before Quinn could answer. “And we’re not-”

“You’re comparing me to a vegetable?” Danse said, sounding almost offended. Hancock sniggered.

“Oh for the love of – guys!” Quinn snapped, losing her patience. “Stop jerking me around! What were you doing?”

“Well,” Hancock said, a mischievous gleam appearing in his eye. “Tin can here was just apologising to Nick for trying to shoot him the other day.”

“You know about that?” Quinn said, momentarily forgetting her annoyance. No one had said anything to her about it.

“Of course we do,” Piper replied, rolling her eyes. “We do _talk_ to each other, you know.”

“And you’re apologising for it?” Quinn turned to Danse, raising her eyebrows. “You’re apologising to Nick?”

The flush returned to Danse’s cheeks. He glared at Hancock in a way that suggested murder, and then through gritted teeth said, “...yes.”

“You’re a shit liar, Danse.”

Danse’s blush deepened.

“And he’s apologised to me, too, for calling me a-”

“Don’t push it, Hancock,” Quinn said, giving him a withering look. She glanced from each evasive face to the next, and then sighed heavily. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk about it, I can’t make you. Finish up whatever you’re all scheming over, and then meet me in Sturges’ workshop. I need to...I have to tell you about...”

She left the sentence unfinished and wandered off, briefly catching them glancing at each other before she turned her back on them.

* * *

By the time she had finished her tale of the Institute, Quinn was drained. She stared at the floor, not wanting to see the judgement in their eyes at the truth. There was the sound of footsteps, and then a pair of arms slid around her. The soft scarf nuzzled into her cheek, and Quinn knew it was Piper.

“Oh, Blue...” she said, holding her tight. “I’m so sorry.”

Quinn peeked up from Piper’s shoulder, and saw the others staring at her in horror. Hancock had a jet inhaler halfway to his mouth, long forgotten. Preston was clenching his jaw, his eyes wide. Both Danse and Nick stood in separate corners, but even though they had both heard the story before, they still looked uncomfortable at its retelling.

“Jesus Christ,” Hancock said, rubbing his forehead with the hand that held the jet and accidentally poking himself in the eye with it. _“Ow.”_ He glared at the jet for a moment, and then his face softened as he looked back at Quinn. “That’s rough. No wonder you didn’t want to...” Hancock shook his head and took a puff of the chem, clearly unsettled.

“I’m sorry, General,” Preston said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No, but...you don’t hate me?”

“Why would we hate you?” It was Danse who spoke this time, and the others turned to look at him. He looked surprised at himself, and then uneasy at all the eyes on him, but went on. “If you could have prevented this, you would have. I _know_ you would have.”

“For the only time in our lives, the tin can and I are in agreement,” Hancock said, puffing on the jet like it was a pre-war pipe. He coughed and glanced up at Quinn. “It ain’t your fault, and whatever happens, I’ve got your back in this.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the others. Quinn felt like crying again. They really were there for her. As she snuggled back into Piper’s arms, she spotted something by the curtains that made her frown, but she bit back her exclamation, deciding to deal with it later. Quinn straightened up and smiled at Piper, before extending it to the rest of her friends.

“I...I just need a moment alone. I’m...”

“We understand, kid.” Nick stood up off the wall he had been leaning against and left the house without another word. The others watched him go, and then silently filed out after him. Danse was the last to leave, lingering for a moment.

“Soldier?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Go on. I’ll be out in a minute.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but then nodded and ducked out, leaving her alone.

Quinn waited for a minute and then walked over to the curtains, where the very tips of Deacon’s shoes were poking out of the bottom. A figure was clearly stood behind it, their shape blatantly visible underneath the thin fabric.

“For god’s sake, Deacon,” she hissed, yanking back the curtain. “You don’t need to spy on me to-”

Quinn blinked. Stood at the window was a female mannequin wearing a pink dress and Deacon’s shoes.

“Gotcha.”

Quinn whirled around to see Deacon lounging on the sagging sofa, wiggling his toes through the holes in his socks.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Quinn said.

“Would you have expected anything else?” He smirked at her and picked up an unopened bottle of Nuka-Cola that had been left from the little gathering the other day. He wrenched off the bottle cap with his teeth and pocketed it.

“You’ll crack your molars doing that,” she said, dropping down into the chair opposite the sofa. “And the point still stands. You could have just asked me what was going on rather than spying on me.”

“Spying is more fun,” Deacon replied, swigging from the bottle. “And...sorry to hear about the Institute, for what it’s worth. I can’t imagine what that feels like, but…” He pulled a face. “Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is you’re tied to the synths, whether you like it or not.”

Quinn glared at him as he lowered his bottle. “What do you mean?”

“Just…” Deacon sighed. “God, this sounds terrible no matter how it’s worded. You sound...torn up about the Institute. About what Shaun-”

“Father.”

“-about what Father’s done. But the Railroad is working to fix that. I know this sounds like I’m just trying to win you over to the team…”

“Yeah, it _does.”_

“Sorry.” He played with the tattered label on the bottle. “But...it could be good for you, depending on how you look at it. I know it was good for...”

Quinn blinked. Had he just almost offered up something about himself? He stared at her, his face giving away nothing, his _damn_ sunglasses hiding any indication of truth that could have been lurking in his eyes.

Deacon shook his head. “Alright, bad timing on my part - too soon. I’m sorry...forget I said anything, okay?” He grinned at her. “But in slightly cheerier news, I also heard that you were leaving the Brotherhood. Great choice.”

“I changed my mind. I’m staying.”

It was the first time she’d ever seen Deacon surprised. His head jerked up to look at her, and he slopped the cola down himself. “Aw, shit.”

Quinn laughed, despite herself.

Deacon didn’t laugh. He studied her, carefully. “You realise what you’re getting yourself into, right?”

Quinn nodded. “I do. But...I’ve made my choice. Unless they do something bad, I’m staying with them.”

“I'd argue they're already doing something bad. But by the time they do something _you_ find bad, it might be too late to leave.”

“I doubt it,” Quinn said, shrugged. “What could they possibly take from me?”

“More than you could ever imagine.”

“I don't particularly care if I die.”

“Really?” Deacon paused, the bottle hovering at his mouth. When she nodded, he lowered it. Well shit. That bad, huh?”

Quinn shrugged. “It doesn't bother me.”

“It should.”

“Since when were you so serious?”

Deacon looked as if she had just likened his mother to a festering blowfly. Sitting up straight, he gasped, “Perish the thought!” Deacon drained the rest of his Nuka-Cola and leapt up off the sofa, tossing the bottle at a nearby bin. It missed and hit the wall, shattering.

“Shit,” Deacon said, stepping away from the broken glass. He edged over to the mannequin and retrieved his shoes, pulling them back on as he talked to Quinn. “So is that your final decision, then? Bigots over the Railroad?”

“I said it might not be permanent,” Quinn replied. “If they ask me to do something I disagree with, I'm gone.”

“Nah,” Deacon said with a smile that Quinn suspected didn't reach his eyes. “I've seen how you look at the paladin. And I've seen how he looks at you. Sure, you're hurting, but-”

“Don't-”

“Quinn, you're going to have to admit it to yourself sooner or later. Maybe then you'll be more honest about why you make the decisions you do.”

“That's rich, coming from a liar by trade.”

Deacon shrugged. “Hey, at least I'm honest about it.”

Quinn massaged her temples. “That doesn't even make sense.”

“I know, right?” He stood up and shot her a wicked grin. “But okay, maybe you're not lying - maybe you really believe the reasons you give. But you like Danse and he's an influence on you. Brotherhood influence is never good. How long until you're murdering ghouls and synths like the rest of them?”

“Never. Trust me.”

Deacon’s laugh filled the room. “I don't trust anyone, especially not you. I had hoped you’d shape up into something decent, but never mind. Then again, maybe you'll prove me wrong.” He paused and the grin faded from his lips. “I hope you'll prove me wrong.”

A comfortable silence followed, though Quinn wasn’t sure _why_ it was comfortable. In any other circumstances, it would have been awkward, but this was Deacon. Whether he liked her choice or not, he had an understanding of it, and at the moment, he didn’t begrudge her for it either. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, genuinely this time.

A thought suddenly occurred to her.

“Deacon, what are the others planning?”

His face remained perfectly neutral as he folded his arms and tilted his head. “A liar never tells.”

“Please,” Quinn begged. “What is it? It’s driving me insane not knowing.”

“Mmm, pleading?” Deacon said, the wicked grin returning to his face. “I could get used to this. Beg harder and we’ll see what happens.” He raised his hands up at the look Quinn shot him and laughed. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Begging wouldn’t work. I like to tease too much.”

“Deacon!”

His shit-eating grin widened. “Alright, calm down. They’re planning a barbeque for you, pre-war style. There’s gonna be balloons and paper plates and everything.”

Quinn opened her mouth to argue, and then stopped. “Honestly, that’s biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard, and yet I _still_ can’t tell if you’re lying.”

“That’s the idea. Pretty mean of you, though, to shoot down their nice idea like tha-”

_“Lemmy! Why is my brahmin on the roof again?!”_

Trashcan Carla’s voice was like a gunshot, and Deacon jumped so hard his glasses nearly fell off his face.

“Oh shit,” he said, starting to giggle. “Cover for me!”

Deacon sprinted across the room without another word, clambering clumsily out of the open window just as Carla entered the house.

“I warned you what I'd do if it happened again!” Carla bellowed; she whipped out her pistol and fired at him. Deacon gave a yell of laughter and tumbled backwards out of the frame and into a hedge, out of sight.

By the time Quinn and Carla had run to the window, he had gone, only an old shoe left behind.

* * *

Returning to the Prydwen had the odd sensation of slipping into a hot bath on a cold winter’s day. Quinn couldn’t explain it; she had only been aboard the airship for a short time compared to the rest of her travels around the Commonwealth, but it undeniably felt like _home._

She said as much to Danse as they climbed into a vertibird at the old airport, glad her helmet masked her hot cheeks. Quinn wasn’t sure _why_ she was telling him, but it felt like she should.

The paladin smiled at her and laid his head back against the seat headrest as the vertibird took off. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Her stomach swooped as they shot up into the air like a cork out of a champagne bottle, and within moments they were docking onto the Prydwen itself. Danse’s demeanour changed almost at once. He had warned her about this on their trek back east - their familiarity with each other had to be curbed back in front of other troops, to preserve rank and order, but Quinn still found it disorientating.

“Good work out there, soldier,” he said, nodding to her.

At the back of her mind, Quinn vaguely remembered the salute that had been taught to her on her first day, and she quickly went through the motions. “Thank you, sir.”

Danse beamed at her. Together, they walked inside and made their way to the power armour station. It was a relief to be somewhere safe, where she could leave the metal shell without compromising herself. Danse, however, did not remove his. Quinn opened her mouth to ask him why, when someone shouted her name from across the floor.

Both Quinn and Danse turned to see a young man waving frantically at them, ignoring the disgruntled stares of the scribes and of Proctor Ingram. The last time she had seen him, he had been lying unconscious in the sickbay, battered and bloodied, hanging onto life by the tips of his fingers. Quinn gawped at him, her heart soaring high.

“Carson!” she cried, and bolted across towards him, practically throwing herself into a tight hug that almost knocked him off his feet. They hit the railings with a bang, and Carson let out a noise like a winded brahmin, before Quinn remembered herself.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” she said, letting go of him as he doubled over, wheezing. “Your injury! Have I hurt you? Are you alright?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Carson straightened up, wearing a wide grin. “I’m just glad you’re so pleased to see me. Looks like I made a good first impression, huh?”

“The best.” Her happiness at seeing Carson on his feet was almost equal to her guilt that she hadn’t thought about him once since she’d left the Prydwen. It didn’t matter that he was a complete stranger to her - he had _survived_ , and Quinn would cling to this small piece of good fortune no matter what. She hugged him again, gently this time, and Carson returned it, giving her a slight squeeze. Quinn pulled away and shook her head. “Honest to God, I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

“Cade said the same thing. But he also told me you and Paladin Danse came to visit.” His expression flickered for a moment. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“Glad to see you’ve recovered, Knight Carson,” Danse said from behind Quinn. Both Quinn and Carson jumped at the sound of his voice, and once again she wondered how the hell he could keep so quiet in his damn armour.

“S-sir!” Carson spluttered, standing to attention and punching himself in the chest with the vigour of his salute. “Thank you for saving my life on the field, sir!”

“You’re welcome” Danse looked at Quinn. “I need to file several reports. Once again, good work, soldier; I’m impressed. Your time is now your own.”

He turned and left; it was only when Carson saluted again that Quinn realised she was supposed to be, too, and hastily copied him. When the sounds of Danse’s stomps died away, Carson let out a long sigh of relief and leaned back on the railings.

“Scary guy,” he muttered.

“Scary?” Quinn said before she could stop herself - obviously Carson had never seen Danse’s face in an awkward social situation.

“He’s one of the most renowned and dedicated paladins in the Brotherhood,” Carson replied with a shrug. “Yeah, I find him just that little bit intimidating.”

Quinn laughed, giving him a playful punch in the arm, and Carson grinned sheepishly at her.

“Come on.” He tugged at the sleeve of her army fatigues as he moved away from the railings. “I figure you save me from a super mutant barbecue, the least I can do is help you settle in a bit better.”

“Settle in?” Quinn asked as she followed him towards the canteen. “I’m already settled in fine.”

“No, you’re not. You barely spoke to anyone on the Prydwen when you were first here, and then you disappeared with Paladin Danse for God knows how long. You need to make some friends with the rest of us grunts.” He shot her a winning smile. “Luckily, being speared with a car bumper has its perks - I’ve had plenty of time to chat, especially with the people who ended up in the sickbay.”

Carson gestured towards a table with two women sitting at it, before dropping himself down into a nearby chair. Quinn followed suite, suddenly feeling shy and on the spot.

“This is Casey Shingler,” Carson said, pointing to a pretty black girl in a scribe’s uniform. “Already getting a reputation as the best damn scribe and hacker out of all the initiates. She came with me from my hometown.”

“Hi,” said Casey, giving Quinn a warm smile, which she returned.

“And this is Knight-Sergeant Marguerie,” Carson continued, nodding to the other woman.

“Carson, just call me by my name, for god’s sake.” Knight-Sergeant Marguerie turned to Quinn and gave her a curt nod. “I don’t do all that rank and file crap. I’m Rachel.”

Quinn didn’t reply. Her stomach had turned to ice as she stared at the knight-sergeant, fear and apprehension boiling away within her. The woman sat before her had milky skin, angular, heavy lidded eyes, and shiny, black hair scraped back into a tight bun. Quinn had never met the so-called ‘Chinese Enemy’ of the war, but by god she looked like everything the posters and government warnings had said.

The Knight-Sergeant - Rachel - frowned at her. “Is there a problem?”

“I...n-no,” Quinn mumbled, feeling her face going red.

“What’s your name?”

“...Quinn.”

“Quinn. The one who’s been on a tour of the Commonwealth with Danse?”

Quinn nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

“Ah. The infamous vault-dweller, a relic of the past.” To Quinn’s surprise, Rachel’s lips broke into a sympathetic smile. She leaned forward, the harsh qualities of her face melting away into something almost motherly. “I’m guessing in your day, Chinese-Americans were made up to be the bogeymen of the world, right?”

Quinn paused, biting her lip.

“It’s alright. I won’t be offended. You can’t help being a product of your time.”

God, her cheeks were burning, but she couldn’t look away. A Chinese person on the Prydwen. A _real_ Chinese person, right in front of her.

_Chinese-American, you ass_ , Quinn thought to herself. This was mortifying. She was being almost as bad as Danse over ghouls and synths. Wishing the floor would swallow her whole, Quinn gave the tiniest of nods.

Rachel grinned and leaned back in her chair, pulling out a cigar from her pocket and lighting it. Thick smoke drifted over her head in a blue-grey cloud, but despite the annoyed glances from some of the other soldiers, no one challenged her. She put the cigar between her teeth and crossed her legs, observing Quinn. “What did they say, then?”

“I...uh…” Quinn swallowed, still unable to look away. Her voice was barely a whisper. “That you were…”

She couldn’t continue. Quinn had never fully bought into the propaganda of the ‘Red Army’, especially not after Nate had come home and shared stories of the war, but still...being told day after day the horrors of the Chinese army and government, bombarded with news reports of the Red atrocities committed, it had been difficult to keep back the uneasy paranoia that had eventually swept across the nation.

Nate had often berated her for it, saying that what he had seen in battle proved both sides were as bad as each other. He had been right, of course. Nate was sensible and level headed, through and through. Or maybe it had been the fact that he’d lived through daily discrimination at the hands of her father. Whatever the case, when he had returned home, he had shut down her fear with a good dose of common sense.

Or so Quinn had thought. She finally dropped her gaze away from Rachel, feeling ashamed.

“Hey,” Rachel said, leaning over and putting her hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “I’m just being mean. Don’t worry about it - I already know. Almost every Chinese-American knows where they came from and what their ancestors suffered during and after the war. But I can see from your face you don’t hold a grudge in your heart. You’ve just never had the chance to be properly acquainted with the other side, right?”

Quinn grasped at the olive branch like a woman dying of thirst would grab at a bottle of water. “Yes. I’m...I’m sorry,” she said, meeting Rachel’s eyes again. “You just took me by surprise - I…”

“Apology accepted.” Rachel chewed on her cigar, puffing up smoke like a dragon. “And besides, the rest of us have all had about two hundred years to get over that bullshit. I’m sure now the initial shock has worn off, you’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” Quinn said, gratitude washing over her. “Though I think the embarrassment might take a little longer.”

Rachel threw her head back and laughed, and to Quinn’s relief, Casey and Carson joined in as well. The awkward moment had passed.

“I would love to interview you at some point,” Casey said when the laughter had died down. “There must be a trove of pre-war history and customs in your head that we can only imagine.”

“Case, let the poor girl find her bearings first,” Carson quipped, causing Casey to squirm in her seat.

“No, I don’t mind,” Quinn said, shooting Casey a reassuring smile. “I don’t know when I’ll next be free, but when I _am_ , I think it would be a great idea to document everything.” She paused. “Though I’m no expert. Pre-war, uh, _customs_ had a lot of variety in them, right down to different towns and cities.”

Casey’s hand was already in her bag, half pulling out a weathered notebook, when Rachel gently took hold of her arm. “Not now, Shingler. Set a date aside for the two of you to have good talk about it.”

Casey squirmed again, but let her book drop back into her bag.

“What I really want to know,” Rachel went on, still puffing away on her cigar, “is how old Danse is doing. Still grumpy and quoting regulation verbatim?” She grinned at Quinn. “Don’t worry. He won’t mind me saying.”

Rachel took the cigar out of her mouth and tapped it on the edge of her glass, spraying ash all over the table. “He knows I mean it with the utmost love and affection. I was on his team for the longest time, back when I was just a knight. I was assigned with him to the Prydwen, before that disastrous op in D.C. with Cutler. We…” Her voice trailed off as she caught the look on Quinn’s face. A shrewd expression graced her weathered, striking features, and she quickly changed tack. “Anyway. We’ve been through thick and thin, Danse and I. A good man. Understands the dangers of the Commonwealth like no other; mutants, ghouls, synths, and everything else in-between.”

Quinn winced, but thankfully the knight-sergeant didn’t see it. So, Rachel was another one who held disdain for the non-humans. From the looks of Carson and Casey, however, they didn’t necessarily agree with her. Before the silence became awkward, though, a tall, stocky man with white skin and a mop of red hair sat down next to Carson.

The change over Carson was instantaneous. His light brown complexion turned dark scarlet as he stammered out a greeting to the newcomer.

“Tom! Hi!” He waved in the direction Quinn, knocking over his empty cup with the process. “Ah shit...um. This is Quinn.” He turned to Quinn. “Uh, this is Tom. Tom Kapraski. One of the lancers - you know what a lancer is, right, don’t you? Yeah, of course you do. _Vertibird pilots._ Uh, but yeah. Tom’s a really good one - uh, so I’ve _heard_ that is. But, um, yeah. Tom, Quinn. Quinn, Tom.”

Carson stopped talking so abruptly, it took Quinn a moment to realise he’d finished. He looked as if he wanted to run from the table; instead, he fidgeted with his hands while Casey stuffed her knuckles into her mouth, trying not to laugh. Rachel merely chewed on her cigar, her eyes drifting lazily from Carson to Tom, and then back again.

“Hi, Quinn,” Tom said. His voice was surprisingly low and gentle; it reminded her of Preston a little, and yet somehow he was another level of soft-spoken that went far beyond even the most soothing of tones. Quinn could feel herself relax by his words alone.

Tom gave similar greetings to both Casey and Rachel, but when he turned to Carson, his pitch went higher, and a faint red flush crept across his cheeks and nose. The two conversed quietly and hesitantly, all smiles and shy looks, apparently now unaware of the three women at the table with them.

Rachel turned to Quinn and rolled her eyes, but she had smirk on her lips too.

“Kapraski!” yelled a voice from the exit down onto the main deck. Lancer Captain Kells was stood there, glaring. “Get on the deck, on the double! Drill started ten minutes ago!”

“Shit,” Tom hissed. The word sounded odd coming from his mouth. He jumped from his seat and yelled over his shoulder as he ran, “See you all later!”

Carson watched him go, biting his bottom lip, and then turned back to see all three women grinning wickedly at him. He blinked. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Rachel stubbed out her cigar on the table and dropped it into her cup. “I better get back to my duties. See you later, kids.” She stood up and strode away, ignoring the glares of the canteen officer as he noticed the ashy mess she’d left behind.

“I better scoot as well,” Casey said, stretching as she got to her feet. “Proctor Quinlan wanted some help with some cataloguing after my break. He seems to have taken a shine to me.” She gave her goodbyes and left.

Quinn stared at Carson, still grinning. He frowned at her.

“What is it?”

“You and Kapraski,” Quinn said, her grin widening. “You like him.”

“I - no, I - as a friend, maybe, but-” Carson spluttered, so red now he had gone maroon.

“And Kapraski likes you,” she sang childishly, drumming her fingers on the table.

“You think so?” Carson said at once, dropping all pretence. His eyes widened as he realised what he’d said. “No, I don’t mean-”

_“Relax_ ,” Quinn said, reaching over and patting his hand. “What’s the problem anyway? I think you’d make a cute couple.”

Carson hung his head and didn’t say anything, suddenly looking very small. Quinn frowned.

“Carson?” she said. When he didn’t answer, she tried again. “Liam?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright.” Quinn stretched in her seat. “Consider it dropped. But I’ve not seen a safe place to sleep for a while now, so I think I need to catch some rest. You coming?”

Carson shook his head, still staring at his lap. Quinn sighed and stood, moving over to him so she could give his shoulder a squeeze as she bent over to mutter in his ear.

“If you ever need to talk,” she said quietly, “come see me. I won’t judge you for anything, I promise.”

He didn’t respond, so she left him, walking down the corridor past the sickbay and towards the stairs that led to the bunks. As she started to climb the steps, she heard Danse’s voice.

“A word, soldier.”

She turned to see the paladin stood at the bottom of the staircase, gesturing to a room at the side. Frowning slightly, Quinn trotted back down, her feet making an uncomfortable clanging noise on the metal floor as she followed him into the room.

It turned out to be a bedroom. After a few beats, realisation hit her.

_Danse’s_ bedroom.

Curiosity exploded within her as her eyes roamed, drinking in every detail. The room was large, but strangely sparse, every piece of furniture tucked precisely against the walls, the tool boxes and stacks of documents set out in an orderly fashion alongside a pre-war pistol Danse had clearly been working on. On one side of the room, there was a Brotherhood flag, old and worn. Quinn wondered if it had belonged to someone else first, or if it was a permanent part of the decor.

Of course, the room was impeccably neat, which didn’t surprise her; the bottles of alcohol on the desk and in the bin, however, did. She inspected them as Danse shut the door, stomped over to the corner, and stepped out of his power armour. The question about the bottles left her mind completely - Danse leaving his armour of his own accord was enough to catch her attention.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“This is a conversation I don’t want to have while looming over you,” he replied, standing awkwardly. “It’s a sensitive topic, and…” He hesitated, shifting on his feet and glancing back at his armour, as if longing to be back inside its protective shell. “I am reporting you to Knight-Captain Cade for medical evaluation. The result of that will likely be your being removed from active duty for a short period of time.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ She stared at him.

“Your behaviour hasn’t improved since the Boston Ruins.”

“My behaviour? I’m not a damn child, Danse.”

“I know. That wasn’t the best phrasing.” He gestured helplessly. “I have been evaluating you myself since then, and noticed a further increase in your erratic, risk-taking behaviour. And after Shaun-”

“Father,” Quinn snapped.

“Father,” Danse corrected. “After...him. You’ve gotten worse. I can’t let you continue like this with good conscience.”

_“...when we eventually return to the Prydwen, you can be damn certain I won’t let you endanger anyone else…”_

She glared at him, an almost delirious anger burning within her as his words from the ruins echoed in her head. Her finger jabbed in his direction as she stepped forward, spitting at him, “You fucking _hypocrite.”_

A flicker of shock crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced with a glare. “I am _not_ a hypocrite.”

“Yes you are! You’re going to have me shafted for ‘erratic behaviour,’ when you had that goddamn episode in the church?”

Danse went rigid. “I thought we’d resolved this.”

“No, all we did was _ignore_ it. And you’re _still_ ignoring it, because I bet when you spill the dirt on me, you won’t mention to Cade that you practically passed out in the middle of the Glowing Sea, huh?”

“This is not…” He began to pace up and down the room. “I’m not trying to punish you; I’m trying to save your life!”

Her throat tightened at these words, cutting off her ability to speak. Danse leapt at the chance to continue.

“The Glowing Sea was the final wakeup call I needed.” He was pacing faster now, gesturing wildly with his hands. “It proved I shouldn’t have even let you go there in the first place. You nearly got us both killed, and after what I saw there, I-”

His shaking hand clamped to his forehead, and he groaned, sweat beading on his skin as he stopped in the centre of the room. Quinn forgot her annoyance with him and walked over, taking hold of his arm and guiding him to his bed. Danse sat down on it, and for a moment didn’t even seem to register her presence. Then he shook his head and gave her an irritated look. His expression softened as she crouched down in front of him, still holding onto his arm.

“What did you see?” she asked quietly.

“I...I don’t know. I only remember parts of it. Just...what I normally dream about. Cutler. I go to help him, but he’s not Cutler anymore, he’s...and then…” He shook his head. “But this time it was different. It wasn’t Cutler, it was…” Danse looked at Quinn for a moment and then dropped his gaze. “It doesn’t matter. But it reminded me that I couldn’t save Cutler. But I can save you.”

“I don’t _need_ saving.” Quinn felt as if he’d slapped her across the face. Did he think she was incapable of looking after herself? “I’m not a goddamn damsel in distress, and cutting me off from the Commonwealth won’t help. You don’t have any right to do this.”

“I’m your senior officer; I have every right. If I think you aren’t fit for the battlefield, it’s my duty to pass on that assessment. But rank or not, keeping you alive is more important to me than your approval of my actions.” He held her gaze. “You’ve been on a self-destructive path from the moment I met you. I’ve tried ignoring it. I’ve tried dissuading you. I’ve tried to help you in every way I know how; this is beyond my ability. However, it’s not beyond Knight-Captain Cade’s.”

“But what about you?” Quinn pointed out. “What happens if you have another episode again?”

“I won’t. That was purely…” he trailed off, glancing at her.

“It’s okay,” she sighed. “I know it was my fault. You can say it.”

Danse nodded slowly. “That was a one-off incident. Stress and tiredness. It won’t happen again.”

Quinn wasn’t sure if she bought it - her experience with Nate had taught her flashbacks were rarely an isolated event - but the determination on his face was so strong, it seemed fruitless to contradict him. “And the nightmares?”

“They don’t affect my ability on the field.”

“They affect your sleep.”

“Only a little.”

Quinn pulled a face at him and he dropped his gaze from her.

“I can’t stop you from passing on what you know to Knight-Captain Cade,” Danse said eventually. “I don’t want you to, but whatever you decide to do with the information, I’ll accept it. I only ask that you don’t. If I Iose the privilege of command, if I let the others see this...weakness.” He shook his head. “A paladin is supposed to set an example to others, not cower over bad dreams. Confinement to the Prydwen is the last thing I want...the last thing I need.”

“And yet you’re going to do it to me.”

“Your behaviour is dangerous.” He gave her a small smile. “Mine is not. It won’t happen again - I won’t allow it.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did. Quinn bit her lip, staring into his deep, brown eyes for what felt like ages, the lighting of the room giving his skin a sickly hue. Rubbing her forehead, she sighed. “I don’t agree with this, but…” Her hand dropped away, resting on her knee. “This is something you need to tell Cade yourself. I think you’re risking too much by carrying on like this, but I also think you won’t be able to deal with your problems until you’re ready.”

“I don’t have any-”

“You _do.”_ She was not going to let this point escape him. “You have a problem, Danse, and it needs to be dealt with. I’ll help you as much as I can, but there will come a time where you _will_ have to go to Cade about it. I can’t force you, and I sure as hell won’t drop you in it, but people are going to start noticing sooner or later. If you go to Cade _now,_ you can overcome this discreetly. No one else needs to know about it.”

Danse didn’t answer, so she stood up and made her way to the door, stopping as her fingers brushed against the handle. Sighing, she leaned against the metal, which was cool against her burning skin.

“You’re right about me. I know you’re right. I need help. So...tell Cade what you have to. Just...please. Don’t tell anyone the truth about Shaun. Just say...say he’s dead. We found him dead.” Her voice broke at these last words, and Danse finally glanced up at her.

“Your secret is safe with me.” He wasn’t smiling, but she could see the sincerity in his eyes.

“Thank you. And thank you for looking out for me, even if I don’t always appreciate it. You’re a good friend. Maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

“The feeling is mutual.” He paused, struggling with himself before blurting out, “I’m leaving the Prydwen again tomorrow.”

_“What?”_

“I have another assignment elsewhere in the Commonwealth. I leave first thing in the morning.”

Everything went cold. Quinn’s heart hammered in her ears, and yet it sounded distant, fading as the weight of Danse’s words clicked in her head. He couldn’t even look at her, the goddamn-

“I see,” Quinn said, her voice dangerously quiet. “Throw me to the wolves and then abandon me when I need-”

_you_

“-friends the most.”

“That is not-” Danse began, rising to his feet and looking at her at last.

“Stop.” Quinn held up a hand, breathing in deep through her nose, before exhaling from her mouth. She met his eye, unsmiling. “You have your duty. I understand. It would be wrong of me to berate you for something you can’t change. Goodnight, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness. Beta schedule difficulties.
> 
> Thank you to dragonifyoudare (tumblr) and waiting4morning (ffnet) for their invaluable beta help.
> 
> Thank you to aelodrea, southernumbrella, simsismybae, and the other people on tumblr who sent me nice messages (I’m sorry I tried to find the rest of you in my IMs but couldn’t) when I had my little ‘I’m a crap writer I can’t write Danse properly’ moment the other day. It made me feel much better. :)
> 
> Also, oh my God, twenty chapters? I had originally planned for this fic to be less than ten chapters, but maybe ten at the most. I’m so glad I took the time to make this into the huge project it’s become.
> 
> One extra thing. If you like my writing and want to keep up with updates on the progression of the chapter being written, as well as the occasional sneak peek at content (and my headcanons on various Fallout things in general, but especially Danse) then check out my 'BNC' tag on my tumblr. The link is:
> 
> http://quinzelade.tumblr.com/tagged/bnc
> 
> Shout out to the glitch where Trashcan Carla's brahmin ends up on the roof of that house in Sanctuary. I am determined for it to be Deacon's fault.


	21. Bottled Solace

Quinn left Danse’s room before the argument could continue, closing the door with a click.

Anger burned within her, mixed with shame and frustration; Quinn _knew_ she was being unfair. Danse owed her nothing - had promised her nothing - other than guidance when they worked together. The Brotherhood would always come first with Danse, and while his stubborn loyalty occasionally annoyed her, she really did admire him for it. Now that it was going to separate them, she had an issue with it?

Part of her wanted to go back in and apologise, but her pride hissed at the very idea.

_Let him go. Let him do whatever the hell he wants. Maybe he’ll be better off without - you won’t put him in danger again._

_He’s doing this deliberately. He’s going to Cade so he can leave you behind for good._

_Just like you left Nate. Just like you’ve left Shau-_

“Quinn?”

Quinn’s head snapped up to see Carson stood in the corridor that led to the canteen. Had he been sat in there the whole time?

“What were you doing in Paladin Danse’s quarters?” His expression was decidedly suspicious. Quinn didn’t like it.

“Nothing.” She moved away from Danse’s door and headed towards the stairs. Carson followed her, grinning.

“Is there something-?”

“You didn’t want to talk about Kapraski, so I sure as hell don’t want to talk about Danse,” she snapped, and then regretted it immediately. Quinn stopped, facing away from him with one foot on the steps, then hung her head and sat down. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Carson sat down next to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Are you...are you okay?”

“No.” Quinn rubbed her eyes and was startled to see her fingers come away wet. “Ah, fuck.”

“Let’s go somewhere more private.” He stood, taking hold of her arm and tugging her to her feet. “Come on.”

Eyes fixed to the floor, Quinn followed him to the very bottom of the Prydwen, the metal walls and floor tainted by the red of the emergency lighting. The underbelly of the ship was deep and dark, puddles of water and rust accompanying the seedy dealings of a small group of soldiers lurking around a stash of vodka bottles and a carton of cigarettes. They shot the two of them nervous glances, lowering their alcohol bottles and shuffling away their pre-war peep magazines as Quinn approached.

“She’s got nice tits,” Quinn said as she passed them by. There was a silence, and then the men roared with laughter, before calling after her. She shot them a sly grin over her shoulder that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and continued with Carson through the recreation area to a quieter section of the lower deck, behind a stack of crates.

“Right,” Carson said as Quinn sat on the floor, propping herself up against a nearby crate. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He sat down with her as Quinn fidgeted, suddenly unable to find the words. Carson said nothing, simply staring ahead and observing the walls with a keen interest, as if the patterns of rust on the Prydwen’s interior were as fascinating as an episode of the Silver Shroud. His acceptance, his patience, and his support for someone he barely knew filled Quinn with an odd love for him.

_We’re going to be great friends_ , she thought. God, what a comfort that was.

“They’re taking me off active duty,” Quinn said dully. “Cade is going to evaluate me tomorrow, realise I’m a mess, and ground me. Danse wanted to tell me in private before he gave his report.”

“What the _hell?”_ Carson’s mouth dropped open in indignation. “Why?!”

His disdain at her situation filled Quinn with a new life, and she explained as much as she dared. About Nate, the search for Shaun, and…

“He's dead,” Quinn whispered. This was true, in a sense; Shaun had ceased to exist. “The Institute killed him, and now I’m stuck on a path that’s going to ruin me and everyone around me. Or at least that’s what Danse thinks.”

Carson’s expression darkened as she recounted the tales of the Boston Ruins, her breakdown, and the Glowing Sea - conveniently leaving out Danse’s own issues, of course. She had no idea why she was baring her soul to Carson, this man she had known for perhaps a collective day, but she couldn’t deny it felt good to vent to someone who wasn’t Danse. There were no conflicting feelings or guilt - no navigating of minefields to keep things friendly, oh so _friendly._ There was just her, her thoughts, and Carson.

He took her hands and gave them a squeeze.

“I’m so, so _sorry,”_ he whispered, his eyes saying more than his words ever could. “I really am. Jesus Christ. How are you still going?”

Quinn laughed bitterly. “I’m not, am I? That’s why they’re going to keep me here.”

Carson gave her a sad smile. “It’s for the best, though, isn’t it? I mean, it sounds like you can hold your own out there, but...you’re struggling, aren’t you?”

_Yes, I am. Danse saw it long before I did._ Quinn nodded, and then glanced down at their hands.

Carson flushed and let go of her. “I’m not-”

“I know.” She grinned. “It’s pretty fucking obvious women aren’t your type.”

“It is?” He looked dismayed.

“Well, no,” Quinn admitted. “It’s not like you wear a badge on your uniform that says ‘I like men.’ But it’s clear that you like Kapraski. Then again, you _could_ like women, too, so I’m talking shi-”

“No,” Carson said, shaking his head. “You’re right. Just men.” He let out a long sigh of relief. “I’m glad it’s not _outwardly_ obvious. I’ll just have to be careful next time I talk to Tom that I don’t-”

“Why?” Quinn interrupted. “Kapraski doesn’t hide that he likes you. Why should you be any different?”

“Because…” Carson lowered his gaze, shifting on the spot. “I...I don’t want people judging me for it.”

Quinn blinked. Was homophobia still a thing in the Commonwealth? The way Hancock had paraded around Goodneighbor, a different mixture of men and women on each arm every night, had given her the impression people had better things to be judgemental about than who someone else was fucking. She said as much to Carson, and he stared at her in surprise, before bursting out laughing.

When he quieted down, he said, “Well, you’re wrong. In some places, it _matters._ Like my hometown. Casey and I…” Carson paused, glancing around before saying in a low voice, “She was my fiancé, back home.”

“Your...what?” Quinn gawked at him. “You two were...and you’re...but…?”

“It was an arranged marriage. It was quite a big, traditional thing in my settlement and some of the neighbouring ones as well. Set up a nice marriage between two towns or villages; bring our communities and resources together, that kind of thing. So liking someone the, uh...the same as you was a massive family shame. Can’t produce kids when you match.”

He hung his head. “I stayed quiet for years, but one day, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I told Casey, because I thought she deserved to know the truth before I abandoned everything. She was quite happy about the whole thing, really. She liked me as a person, but she didn’t want to marry me. So…”

Carson rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes. “We left a note to each of our families, and we ran. Casey wanted to join the Brotherhood, because it was a way for her to learn more and do something important. I went along for the ride, because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And here I am.”

Quinn nudged him, and he finally looked up at her, his expression one of a man waiting for the headsman’s axe to fall.

“I don’t see you any differently,” Quinn said quietly. “And given that no one else clearly gives a shit that Kapraski likes you, I don’t think anyone else will either. If you like him, go for it. It’s about time you let yourself be happy.”

“Thanks, Quinn.” Carson smiled and then bit his lip. “Maybe I’ll talk with Tom tomorrow, if Kells doesn’t have him hanging over the side of the ship, scraping off external rust for being late for drill.”

_“Jesus Christ.”_

“I know!”

The next hour was spent in deep conversation about whose idea it was to make external rust scraping a punishment. Carson was convinced it was Kells, and Maxson had just run with it, while Quinn felt that Maxson had the creativity to think outside the box, and Kells had agreed dangling soldiers over a six hundred foot drop was an excellent way to stop them missing drill again. It was only when the severely disgruntled knight-sergeant with the peep magazine popped his head around the crates and told them to shut up because, _“Proctor Ingram is the only one with enough mad genius for that bullshit,”_ that they decided to call it a night.

Casey approached her as they drew near to the bunks, handing her a note.

“Knight-Captain Cade wanted me to give you this,” she said. “He said he didn’t have time to send out a search party for you...or words to that effect.”

“Thanks,” Quinn replied, and moved away from the others to read it. The note had been sealed with medical tape to prevent prying eyes from looking. Despite herself, she smiled, appreciating the gesture, and opened it.

_Knight,_

_As I’m sure you are aware, Paladin Danse has given his report of your recent time on the field. Without wishing to put too much detail here, I agree thoroughly with his assessment and the actions he suggested._

_Please come and see me first thing tomorrow._

_Knight-Captain Cade_

Quinn crumpled the note up in her fist and threw it over the railings and into the darkness below. It was official. She was going crazy. No, she was _already_ crazy; she had said as much to Deacon.

_“I don't particularly care if I die.”_

Who thought like that? The crazy bitch with the frozen husband and the ‘dead’ son, obviously. And soon everyone on the Prydwen would know about it. She had nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide.

“Welcome home,” Quinn muttered to herself.

* * *

Over the next few days, hiding from Knight-Captain Cade became something of a talent for Quinn. Danse had wanted her to be evaluated as soon as possible, but he had left her here alone.

_Fuck Danse and fuck Cade, too._

She didn’t need someone poking around in her head, telling her she was a wreck, _analysing_ her. That much was blatant already. Why couldn’t Cade just leave her be? They wanted her to recuperate, so she was recuperating. By herself. As far away from the others as possible.

Quinn sighed, wishing she could be back at Sanctuary again with the others. Hancock, with his stupid drug habit and his love of her stupid _‘got your nose’_ joke. Nick, with his chain smoking and endless tales of cases. Piper, and her secret stash of candy that could probably feed all of Diamond City for a year. Not to mention her subtle wit. And Preston, good natured and gentle, an influence of good that kept her grounded in this insane new world. It brought her hope to know people like him still existed.

And then there was Sturges. Quinn wondered what he had done with the data she had given him from the Institute. She’d done it when Danse hadn’t been looking, so as not to cause an argument about _‘duty to the Brotherhood’_ ; after all, she owed Sturges a lot. Still, her stomach gave a twinge of guilt when she thought about it. The data _could_ have been shared with the Brotherhood. But then again, they could have used it to hurt Shaun.

“Hey.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Quinn muttered as Carson made his way along the walkway towards her. Day after day, various people had approached her with Cade’s requests for her to see him. She had managed to avoid most of them, and play ignorant with the rest, but Carson...Carson would not leave her be, and she was running out of places on the Prydwen to stay out of sight.

“Yeah, it’s that time of day again,” Carson said, standing over her with his hands on his hips, an amused smile on his face. The grin quickly slipped away, however, and he crouched down next to her. “How long you going to keep this up? I can promise you, Cade won’t drop it. He has the persistence of a deathclaw in heat.”

“Dare I ask how you know what a deathclaw in heat looks like?”

“It’s...probably best if you never find out.” Carson pulled a face. “But anyway, don’t change the topic. When are you going to see him?”

“When someone drags my cold, dead body there.”

Quinn half expected him to tell her off, to nag her for not doing what she should. Instead, he offered her a hand.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

She stared at him for a moment, but his smile was so disarming, she grumbled and took hold of him, allowing him to pull her up. Dusting herself down, they set off on a slow ramble around the Prydwen, Quinn casting nervous glances around for Cade, while Carson chattered aimlessly away.

 

It was only when he said, _“I’m glad you’re off active duty,”_ that she took proper notice, rounding on him instantly.

“You’re _glad_ that I’m stuck here? That I’m-”

_“Woah!”_ Carson exclaimed, throwing his arms up in mock surrender. “Calm down!”

Quinn bit back a retort, her fraying temper already close to snapping. Cursing out the one person on the ship who had been patient with her so far was not a winning option.

“I’m sorry,” he went on, lowering his hands. “That sounded better in my head. What I meant was I’m just glad I have someone else with me here, circumstances not taken into consideration.” He paused, his face dropping. “Christ, you’re right. No matter how you word it, that sounds so _shitty.”_

A giggle escaped before she could stop herself; it was hard to stay angry at someone so damn charming. She nudged him with her elbow to let him know all was forgiven, and then asked, “But why are _you_ confined to the Prydwen?”

“Oh come on.” He blinked at her. “No? You really don’t know why?” Carson unzipped his uniform, revealing a horrendous, twisted mass of scar tissue across his stomach, pink and puckered against his dark skin. Carson stared at it for a moment, and then quickly zipped it back up again when someone down the corridor wolf whistled at him, followed by a series of jeering laughs.

Quinn led Carson away, trying not to laugh herself as his cheeks turned deep red.

“So,” she said, “that thing hasn’t healed yet?”

“Almost, but not fully. Stimpaks work wonders, but they don’t perform miracles. Cade is making sure my muscles and all the other important bits are fully healed before he even considers letting me back out on the field again. To be honest, it’s been hell watching everyone else do their part for the Brotherhood while I’m left here…”

“Since when have you cared about that? You said you were here ‘because it seemed like a good idea at the time’ when I first met you.”

“Yeah, well…” Carson looked down at his feet, fidgeting a little. “Nearly dying and having your team care enough to visit your bedside can change that.” His expression softened, though his blush deepened. “And...Tom, too, I guess. And everything else here.” He glanced up at her. “I’ve been talking more with Tom, and you were right. There’s a few teasing jokes, but no one really cares. It feels like home, y’know? Or what my home _should_ have felt like.”

“I get you,” Quinn replied, putting her hand on his shoulder and giving it a little squeeze.

“I’m just glad you’re here. It’s not often I click with someone so quickly.”

“I was thinking the same thing. Must be my grace and elegance that drew you in.”

“Sure, let’s go with that.” He smirked as they walked on, climbing higher and higher up through the Prydwen, the hum of the engines buzzing through Quinn’s ears as they made their way past the core.

Carson’s turned to her, suddenly serious. “Honestly, though, you’re going to have to go to Cade soon. He’s picked up on the fact we get along, and he’s pressuring me to pretty much drag you to him.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to end up missing my teeth,” Carson said with a shrug. “But why are you avoiding this? The sooner you see him, the sooner you can get off this ship again.”

Quinn hadn’t thought of it like that, but it would be a cold day in the Glowing Sea before she admitted it. But now she thought about it, Quinn wasn’t entirely sure why she was going out of her way to rebuff Cade’s help. Evading him felt like she was evading some great, universal truth: her condition wouldn’t be real until Cade told her so. Clinging to this last scrap of normality was all she had left.

Carson frowned as she voiced this and folded his arms. “So you’re running away?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Quinn snapped.

His face dropped immediately. They both knew what she was referring to, and in that moment, she wanted to take her cutting words and stuff them back in her mouth. But it was too late; Carson looked as if she had hit him.

“I get that you’re going through a tough time,” he said, stepping back from her and glaring, “but treating people like shit won’t get you anywhere. Especially when you throw their biggest insecurities at them for a cheap shot.”

“I’m sor-” Quinn began, but he cut her off.

“I’m sure you are. But right now, I don’t think I’m in the mood to hear any half-assed apologies. I don’t know who has been letting you get away with your attitude for so long, but it doesn’t fly with me. Go see Cade and sort your head out, before he gets Rachel to drag you to his damn office.” Carson turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Quinn alone on the walkways.

She couldn’t even bring herself to be angry. Her fiery temper was something that had always gotten her into trouble, even when she had been with Nate. But lately, she seemed to be erupting at the slightest provocation, hurting the people she cared about most. Carson’s outright refusal to put up with it made her think of Danse - specifically, his near eternal patience at her appalling behaviour. A slow heat crept up her cheeks as she thought about all the times she had snapped at him for no reason. Her last conversation with him was enough to make her cringe.

_No wonder he left. Probably sick to death of you by now._

This was the other reason why Quinn hadn’t wanted to be removed from duty. Too much time to think, to reflect. With this would come change and growth, she supposed, but alongside everything else that was happening, it felt like too much to bear.

Her foot skidded on something, and Quinn hurled forward, crashing into the railings of the walkway so hard, she nearly toppled straight over them. Instead, she fell back with a loud, metallic thud, staring dazedly up at the rusting ceiling. When her head finally cleared, Quinn groaned and rolled onto her front, her heart jumping into her throat.

On the floor were a series of childish drawings, done in brightly coloured chalk, clearly drawn by the young Squires on the ship. A puppy. A rainbow. An alien and a rocket ship. She glanced up to see pieces of chalk left scattered everywhere, the likely culprit for her fall. Next to them was an alien spaceship toy and a model Nuka-Cola truck. The exact same kind of toys that had been in Shaun’s toy box before the bombs - presents from her mother on Shaun’s first birthday.

Biting back a choked sob, Quinn crawled away and rocked back on her knees, rubbing hard at the chalk dust that now covered her hands and clothes. The harder she scrubbed, the more it smeared. Panic was welling up inside of her now, and all at once, she knew what she needed.

Scrambling to her feet, Quinn patted her clothes, checking her small stash of caps was still present, and then shakily made her way down the stairs, taking deep breaths to try and keep in control. A few of the other soldiers threw glances at her, and someone - maybe Casey, but she wasn’t sure - asked her if she was okay. Quinn mumbled an answer and hurried away, reaching Proctor Teagan as fast as she could without running.

“The whiskey, please.” Quinn slammed down a pile of caps, sending them scattering all over the desk and onto the floor. She didn’t know what the exchange rate was for the booze, but hopefully it would be enough.

Teagan raised an eyebrow, but grabbed the alcohol and put it down in front of her, naming his price.

“Yeah, more than enough there,” Quinn mumbled, snatching up the bottle and rushing away.

“Wait, don’t you want your change?” he called after her. Quinn ignored him, hurrying down the steps to the bottom of the Prydwen. There were people here, too, but she had a way to deal with that.

Quinn continued on down to the section that led _under_ the lowest floor. Checking no one was watching, Quinn crouched down and clambered across the scaffolding and piping, wrestling her way through the low, metal obstacle course until she was under a stack of crates, hidden away from the rest of the world. It felt almost funny that a few days ago she had been sat at those very same crates with Carson, spilling nearly all her secrets to him.

No matter. She had an even better friend with her now.

This was what she lived for. The crack of the seal as she opened the lid. The strong, eye watering smell of spirit, rich and ready for her. The dark, amber colour tainted by shadow and the faint, red light filtering through the slats in the metal flooring. Quinn leaned up against one of the metal supports and pressed the cool, glass bottle to her mouth, drinking deeply from it.

_God._

She spluttered, spilling a large amount down herself. This was good shit. She could tell by the taste, the texture. The label was gone, but there was no hiding this quality. Teagan had no idea what he had practically given away. A laugh bubbled up from her lips, causing more of the burning liquid to spill down her already damp shirt, and she tipped the bottle back, swigging from it with a hardened resolve.

Within minutes, Quinn was a third of the way through. Her throat stung with sweet fire, her stomach churning as bile gurgled up into her mouth, demanding she slow down. Quinn washed it back with another mouthful, and then gagged, struggling to hold back the urge to be sick.

_No, I’m not there yet. I can still think. I can still feel. I still know who I am._

_Please. Let me forget. Let me drink until I’m dead._

_Please._

Another hit. The retching began as the world spun lazily around her, swinging her head from side to side within the confines of her own skull. She hit her teeth with the bottle as she dove into her escape again, barely noticing the dull throb of pain that spread across into her gums, the taste of blood lingering on her tongue. More whiskey to wash it back. It wouldn’t matter after that.

_Halfway mark._

Her laughter was quiet and devoid of emotion. It was just _so funny._ Her son. Sixty years old! And she was only twenty-eight...or was she twenty-nine? Quinn didn’t know; her lips had gone numb and her vision was unfocused. She wished she was a teenager again, in the passenger seat of Mark’s car, drinking alcohol and chipping her tooth before they were pulled over by the police. Before Nate. Before Shaun.

_Why couldn’t Kellogg have killed me? Why did I have to live?_

Her sniggers turned to silent, breathy sobs as she choked down more of the alcohol. Some of it dribbled down her slack mouth, but her tongue worked to catch the wayward drops, lolling clumsily at the bottleneck.

_Two thirds done._

There were no more tears. No more giggles. The perfect place had been reached at last: beautiful, terrible nothing. A delicious emptiness that smothered every emotion she had, throttling the life out of them without mercy or hope.

The hand that held the bottle hung loose at Quinn’s side, her fingers clutching though they were too numb to feel. With a loud clunk, the whiskey slipped from her grasp, spilling the rest of its contents on the floor like a gutted animal. Quinn stirred, but ignored it, too far gone to really notice or care. Her eyelids drooped, her face blank as the alcohol spread, seeping into the fabric of her trousers.

In the distance, there were words - muffled words that echoed in her head, trying to pierce through the weight of her inebriation. Quinn stayed where she was, slouched against the scaffolding, her jaw hanging open as she stared ahead, dimly aware of the tear tracks drying on her cheeks. How odd that, in the height of her dulled stupor, that was the one thing that was truly _real_ to her.

A figure appeared in front of her, their hands clamping down on Quinn’s shoulders. She couldn’t feel their grip, but the world rattled as they shook her. They leaned in close, and everything snapped into perspective, an almost frightening elation ripping through her.

“Nate!” she cried, lifting arms as heavy as lead, clutching at the front of his uniform. The man’s face was blurred, but he was dark and tall and on the skinny side. It was Nate. It was _Nate._ He had forgiven her and come back. He was here with her, ready to take her away from it all.

“Nate,” Quinn croaked, fighting her own body and forcing a hand up to touch his face. “I’m sorry I left you there. I’m _so_ sorry. I thought you were...I love you. I love you. I _love_ you. Nate…”

Could he hear her? Could he understand her? The words that tumbled from her mouth were not the ones that were going through her head - they were muddied and corrupted, and he didn’t seem to _understand._

“Oh, shit,” said Nate. “Oh shit, Quinn. Oh shit, this is bad. This is _bad_. This is... _fuck.”_

He tried to pull away and terror exploded out of her like a bomb. No, she couldn’t lose him again. Quinn grabbed the front of his clothes, fisting the fabric between her hands as she begged him to stay, her voice getting louder as he fought to leave.

A rough palm clamped over her mouth, stifling her words. Quinn tried to scream, but Nate leaned in, smoothing back her hair with his free hand and talking in a soft, soothing voice.

“I’m not going anywhere, Quinn. Just...stay quiet. Okay? I won’t go anywhere if you stay quiet.”

Quinn gave a clumsy nod and Nate removed his hand, sitting down next to her in the puddle of whiskey. Without hesitation, she slumped against him, flinging her arms around his middle and clutching him tight, muttering a stream of apologies. He had to know how much she loved him, how much she had missed him. Nate said nothing, simply holding onto her as Quinn mumbled away.

The last thing she remembered was the feel of his body against hers, before she slipped into the black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to waiting4morning (ffnet) for their invaluable beta help! And thank you to those who give all their love in reviews and favourites and kudos and so forth. It really makes my day!
> 
> And thank you to a particular reviewer who is currently helping me with my PTSD research. You know who you are.


	22. The Edge

Shaun was crying again.

It was the kind of crying that spoke of fear - sharp, breathy wails, screaming for a parent to save him from the shouts in the darkness that he couldn’t understand. His wails were an alarm, ringing on and on without pause, without a hint of relenting, until someone saved him from the monsters.

Nate ignored him.

The corridor was dark as he stepped out from his bedroom, disregarding the snuffled cries of his wife behind him. Their most recent argument had been a fierce one - Quinn had shouted herself hoarse, the fire that he had once admired in her feeling like needles in his chest. She had demanded to know what was wrong with him, why he ignored her, why he ignored his son - _their_ son. He had let it go on for a little while, until finally his temper had gotten the better of him.

Not that he’d hit her. No, he’d never lay a finger on either of them. But he’d bellowed louder than anything she could have managed, and in his rage, thrown a lamp across the room. It had hit the nearby wall, knocking free a framed picture his father had painted for them as a wedding gift. That had shut her up. It had shut him up, too.

What the hell was wrong with him? Violence was not in his nature, soldier or not, and the idea that he could do something so clearly beyond his control scared him as much as it had obviously scared Quinn. He could turn left, to help his son. He could turn back and console his wife.

Nate turned right and walked down the hall and into the living room, switching on the lights with a shaking hand. The sudden flare from above sent shivers down his spine, but he fought back against the pressing memories, and they settled.

Above the sound of Shaun’s wails, Nate heard Quinn move, going into his room and making soft, cooing noises. Try as she might, though, he could hear the tremble in her voice as she worked to calm down their son. Perhaps that was why Shaun only screamed harder; he could tell she was lying.

Nate walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap, letting the cool water run over his hands before he splashed it onto his face. The shock helped, and the dull pressure in his head lessened somewhat. He turned the water off and leaned over the sink, breathing heavily through his nose. How long he stood there, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t until Quinn walked back into the room, carrying a still crying Shaun, that he looked up.

In an instant, his world fell apart.

His wife - his beautiful wife - was standing, fully dressed, with a holdall bag hanging off the crook of her arm, while Shaun squirmed and bawled as she cradled him. The bag was packed so tightly, it looked as if it was going to burst open.

“Quinn,” Nate said, his voice breaking as panic flared up through his chest. It was an electric shock so intense he thought he would keel over with the pain.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Quinn said, and in that moment, he saw a glimmer of the woman he had fallen in love with, so many years ago. Parenthood had tried to smother her, but she burned through brighter than a star, so frighteningly and resolutely _Quinn._

Fierce. Determined. Strong. Her red, puffy eyes gleamed with a hard coldness that filled the room, and Nate knew if he let her go now, he would never see her again.

“Quinn!” He stepped forward, and she pulled Shaun closer to her chest, edging towards the door. Nate stopped, not wanting her to run. “Quinn. Don’t take him away from me. Please. Don’t go.”

Her mirthless laugh stung as her face screwed up in disgust. “Oh, _now_ you take an interest in him? You pathetic excuse for a man.”

She was right, but she was also wrong. Nate wanted to grab her, wanted to shake her, make her realise the truth. Couldn’t she see that keeping away from Shaun was the only way to protect him? Couldn’t she understand that the more time he spent with them, the more he would drag them down into his hell?

No, how could she? He barely understood it himself.

Quinn turned, the bag swinging around and knocking a vase on the shelf. It teetered on its edge for a moment, and as Quinn placed her fingers on the door handle, fell and hit the floor with a loud crash.

“Nate, duck!”

Hands grabbed him and dragged him into the dirt as something whizzed overhead. He coughed, the grit salty and dry in his mouth, and looked up to see himself face to face with a ghost.

_“Watch your ass, Nate. You got a pretty gal to go home to.”_

_“Nate!”_

_“Well, you_ had _a pretty gal.”_

“Nate!”

Nate gasped, his hands gripping at the floor as Quinn leaned over him, her hands pressed on his shoulders. He lay there, rigid and panting, chest tight as he struggled to breathe. His head hurt, a hot, wet something trickling down the side of his face and dripping to the floor. Underneath him, he could feel hard objects digging into his body.

Still, he didn’t try to get up as the world slowly morphed back into place, but raised his hands to Quinn’s arms, hardly daring to believe she had stayed. She was _here._

“I’m sorry,” Nate mumbled. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…”

Over and over again, he said it: two words that he had failed to utter for so long, they felt foreign on his tongue. If he said it enough, she would stay for good. If he said it enough, he could keep his son. If he said it enough-

Quinn pressed her mouth to his, her tears dripping down onto his cheeks. Nate could feel his own eyes stinging, but he held back. If she saw his weakness, she would run. He knew that as well as he knew his own name.

When they broke away, Quinn sat up and wiped her eyes. It was then that Nate realised there was someone else in the room.

“How are you doin’, kid?” Mrs Bossanova rasped. Nate’s eyes drifted to the thick, jagged scar that ran across the width of her throat, and shivered. But despite his discomfort, he trusted the tiny, elderly, black woman. She had always offered him solid advice when it had come to Quinn’s overbearing father.

Shaun lay in her arms, watching Nate with wide, strangely alert eyes. His child. The distance he had created between himself and his son seemed to fall away, and he was filled with a sudden urge to hold Shaun, to kiss him and hug him and never let him go.

Nate tried to sit up and groaned as his head pounded, feeling like it was about to split in two. Quinn gently pushed him back down, biting her lip.

“Don’t try to move,” she mumbled, stroking his face. “You hit your head when you…”

“I’ll take Shaun back to bed,” Mrs Bossanova announced, a book tucked under her arm. “He can keep me company while I read a bit of Austen.”

She shuffled away and out of sight. Nate closed his eyes, but opened them again instantly as a wave of nausea hit him. He looked at his wife, trying to ignore the spinning sensation, and said, “What happened? Why is she here?”

“You…” Quinn paused, her fingers digging into him slightly. “You had another flashback, I think. The vase…” She glanced away from him, towards the open front door. “One minute I’m trying to get out, the next I hear a bang and...it’s the worst I’ve ever seen you.”

Nate raised a hand to his aching scalp, his fingers coming away red. Well, that explained why he felt sick, at any rate.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Quinn babbled on, her grip now painful. “I had Shaun, but you were...and then Mrs Bossanova just walked in. Said she’d heard us from down the street and wanted to check we were okay. Took Shaun off me, and then…” She shrugged. “Here we are.”

Nate winced and rested his hand on hers, smearing blood onto her pale skin. Thankfully, her fingers relaxed at his touch. They sat in silence for a moment, not looking at each other, before Quinn spoke.

“This can’t go on, Nate. I was ready to leave tonight.” She paused, and some of the conviction returned to her face. “I’m still ready to leave, if you don’t offer me a damn good explanation for the way you’ve been acting lately.”

Nate froze. Of course she wouldn’t just forgive and forget; what kind of idiot did he take her for? This wasn’t a product of one heated argument, but months and months of problems and battles rising together into a single, horrific climax. He closed his eyes, ignoring his dizziness, not wanting to look at the resentment on her beautiful face.

“Nate.”

Her tone was different now. Desperate. Pleading. Quinn _never_ pleaded.

“I can’t stay if you don’t. I can’t keep Shaun in a house like this.”

That did it. The idea of losing Shaun was too much. Nate opened his eyes, pushing through the fear that choked him, and began to talk. Quinn’s expression dropped in alarm as his shameful secrets were given to her. Pathetic excuse for a man, she had said earlier. She was right.

As a man, he was unworthy of being a father, going through the motions of an endeavour doomed to fail. As a husband, he was frail and lacking. He was supposed to be the strong one, the one to care for her and his son, and yet in reality he was no better than a child.

But it all paled to the worst crime he had committed. He had nearly killed all of them in the throes of his first flashback, in the car. What if it happened again when Nate was holding Shaun? Or taking Shaun for a walk? Or in later life, at school plays or meetings, or when Shaun brought his friends home to play?

“I’m a danger and an embarrassment,” Nate finished, looking away from Quinn, unable to meet her eye. “And it would be easier if Shaun didn’t know me at all. But…” Nate swallowed, his throat tight. “But I’m so selfish...the _one_ opportunity you have to escape, and the first thing I do is beg you to stay. I’m-”

He never finished his sentence. Quinn lay across his chest, hugging him tight, and...by God, was she sobbing?

“Quinn?” he said weakly.

“You...you…” Her voice muffled into him, before she pulled away, tears streaming down her face. “How could you think that? Any of it? _I love you._ And Shaun...he would never be ashamed of you. You’re a goddamn hero in every sense of the word, and if you’d told me this sooner, I could have _helped_ you.”

His wife. Without warning, he pulled her close, hugging her so tight he thought she would complain. She didn’t. And he realised, with a feeling of adoration so strong it ached, that she never would.

“Doctor’s,” she murmured into his ear, holding him just as hard. “Doctor’s, first thing in the morning, okay?”

“Yes. Anything to make this right.”

“Anything?”

Despite her distress, he could see the mischief in her eyes. Nate nodded, a small grin playing on his lips.

Quinn leaned forward and pulled out a splintered table leg out from underneath him. “You can start by buying me a new coffee table, then.”

* * *

“Oh fuck me.”

Everything hurt. Light hurt. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. But most of all, her _motherfucking head-_

“Christ, you’re awake!”

Hands grabbed at her. Quinn gave a loud groan, trying to tug herself free as she squinted up at the owner of the voice. Fire ripped through her forehead, and she squeezed her eyes shut again, wishing someone would just shoot her and get it over with.

“Knight Carson,” said another voice, and the hands released her.

“Sorry, Knight-Captain Cade.”

“It’s alright,” replied Cade. He rattled around nearby, the noise splintering through Quinn like glass. “But I need to speak with this knight here in private, so why don’t you take a break?”

“I...yes, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir.’ Now off you go.”

The sound of footsteps started, quickly growing fainter as Carson left. There was a scraping noise, followed by a creak, and then suddenly Cade’s voice was right next to her ear.

“Hold still. This will hurt a little, but it’ll help with the pain.” There was a plastic click, a slight metallic tapping sound, and then a sharp something buried itself at the base of her neck, just above the collarbone.

Quinn’s words became little more than a slow hiss as she froze in shock, and then shuddered as the sharp something was removed. A whiny gasp escaped her, followed by a low giggle as a sweet sensation flooded over her. She was floating away, swimming on clouds alongside the Prydwen, cradling a bottle of whiskey to her-

Reality returned with a bump, the lightness in her head being replaced with a dull throb, her limbs heavy and unresponsive.

“Try to open your eyes.”

With some apprehension, Quinn obeyed. The light still felt offensively bright, but the stabbing pains had gone. She turned her head to see Cade sat next to her, an empty syringe of med-x in his hand. A screen surrounded her bed, cutting her off from the rest of the ship.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, as he disposed of the needle in a bucket labelled ‘sharps.’

Quinn shrugged and then winced as something tugged and stung in her arms. “What the…?”

“Careful.” Cade leaned forward and removed what looked like a drip needle from Quinn’s forearm. The tube connected to it led to a bag half full of clear liquid.

“What the hell happened?”

“Alcohol poisoning,” Cade said in a low voice. “But the official diagnosis is ‘radiation sickness from unpurified water, due to a lack of natural resistance to the wasteland.’”

Quinn blinked. “...radiation sickness?”

Cade shrugged. “After Paladin Danse’s report, I felt it was unnecessary to put you in a position for further stigmatisation. Your actions were far below the standards expected of our knights, but given your circumstances, I believe this incident can be left off the record.”

He stood up, removing the drip bag from its stand and throwing it away in another, separate bin. The needle joined the med-x in the ‘sharps’ bucket. Cade began to putter around, clearing away equipment as Quinn slowly sat up and sniffed the air. Next to her bed was a bucket filled with what looked like vomit. A prickling heat began to slowly creep up her cheeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cade said, noticing where she was looking. “You won’t be the first in here for your _illness,_ and you won’t be the last. At the very least, yours has nothing to do with addiction.”

“You mean I’m not an alcoholic, at least.”

“You’re not an alcoholic _yet._ But make a habit of this and you certainly will be.” To Quinn’s horror, Cade picked up her sick bucket.  He smiled at her. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. Stay put. I’d rather not have a chat with you with this in the room, but if you aren’t here when I get back, I’ll be annoyed.”

Part of her wanted to run, to avoid having the conversation she knew was coming, but...it was inevitable. As hard as she fought, it would happen eventually. If he was going to cover up her attempt at drowning herself in whiskey, the least she could do is hear him out. Sighing, Quinn glanced around at her surroundings, trying to ignore her headache. It seemed the med-x had only taken off the worst of the pain.

Cade’s office was perhaps the cleanest place she had seen in the Commonwealth. Though it lacked the traditional white, immaculate walls of the pre-war hospitals, there wasn’t a speck of dirt in sight, and all his equipment was gleaming, free from rust and blood. It wasn’t the most organised space, an explosion of tools and medicine, but it was a sense of chaos that Cade clearly navigated with ease.

Her nerves mounted as she waited for the knight-captain to return, swinging her legs on the old gurney, before attempting to stand. She cried out as her legs buckled and she crashed down into a metal stand full of equipment. Bandage rolls and stimpaks rained down on her as she lay crumpled on the floor, her legs trembling.

Cade ran back into the room, carrying the now empty bucket, which was dripping with water. He dropped it and stooped down to help her, his hands brushing quickly over her, searching for any injuries. When he was satisfied with her state, he led her over to the chair in front of his desk and helped her sit down, before picking up the bucket and putting it in the corner of the room. Finally, he sat at his desk and gave her a warm, sympathetic smile.

“How did I get in here in the first place?” Quinn asked, before Cade could speak.

“Knight Carson and Scribe Shingler brought you in,” he said, shuffling some papers. “Luckily for you, yesterday there was a...commotion. No one noticed you being brought in except for a squire, and he thought you were...ill.”

Curiosity bubbled within her. Why the pauses? What commotion? So many questions, but she had to ask the biggest one first. “Yesterday?”

“Yes. You’ve been out for about…” Cade scanned his notes. “A good twelve hours at least. You were unconscious initially, which was worrying, but once you were rehydrated, you woke for a spell, and then fell asleep. It seems like you needed it.”

Twelve hours? Quinn bit her lip. She must have really done a number on herself. Her sleep had been somewhat disturbed on the Prydwen, yes, but she hadn’t expected it to be _that_ bad. Then again, when she really thought about it, three hours of sleep a night wasn’t a great number. Pushing the thought aside, Quinn moved onto her next question. “What commotion?”

Cade shook his head. “I’d rather discuss you instead.”

“Knight-Captain Cade-” she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“Paladin Danse has given me a report of your time in the wasteland with him,” Cade said, in a firm but compassionate voice. It was the voice of a man who would not bow down to her, but would care for her while he gave his judgement. “How are you feeling, Quinn? Can I call you Quinn?”

Quinn nodded, her mouth dry as her palms began to sweat. This was it. This was going to be _The Talk_. She shrugged. “I’m...I’m fine.”

“Paladin Danse feels otherwise, and I’m inclined to agree with him.” Cade pulled out a piece of paper from the stack and read from it aloud. “Unusual, risk-taking and reckless behaviour, heavy drinking - which you’ve already displayed quite well to me - and after you found out your son had died…”

Cade put down the paper and gave her a concerned look. “Paladin Danse said you had some sort of violent breakdown. He believes you are a danger to yourself, and would also be a danger to others if you were allowed back on the field. But you already know this.”

She nodded again, her stomach twisting and turning, making the nausea return twofold. Quinn crossed her arms across her middle and leaned forward, trying to ignore it, to no avail. Their last talk played over in her head - she had been so rude to him, so unfair. Now, in the wake of yet another meltdown, Quinn couldn’t help but think he had a point.

“It’s not often I can pull a knight from active duty; I generally find I need medical evidence to show you aren’t fit for field work. In this case, the testimony of Paladin Danse was more than enough evidence to take you off patrol for a short while. It’s my medical opinion that you are suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, possible depression, and shock, as well as going through the stages of grief.”

“Don’t take this from me,” Quinn said suddenly. A strange fire was rising within her, demanding she fight for her place on the outside. She didn't have to lie down and accept this. Her volume increased as she began to babble. “Don’t take away my own only distraction from everything. Don’t leave me locked up in this fucking-”

_“Knight,”_ Cade said sharply. Danse and Maxson had nothing on the authority that the doctor could wield with just his tone of voice. She shut up instantly, feeling shell shocked.

Cade studied her for a moment, and then continued. “I’m going to conduct a series of tests to evaluate your physical and mental health. Once that is concluded, we can decide what steps to take next. However, I’m not just a fixer of bullet wounds and broken bones - I offer counselling to anyone who needs to talk.”

He paused, as if considering something, and then went on. “Alternatively, there are several members of the Brotherhood who have also lost spouses and children. If you would rather speak to them instead, I can arrange it.”

Quinn couldn’t answer. Cade’s look of sympathy was making her too sick to speak. He waited for a moment for her response, and then smiled when she gave her muted nod of approval.

“Try not to see this as a punishment,” he said gently. “Every soldier goes through some form of trauma in their lives. The amount of brothers and sisters I've had to take off duty due to PTSD is larger than you would expect; no one will think any differently of you for it. Your situation just happens to be more...personal than most. But this will give you a well earned break, and a chance to adjust to life in the wasteland. I'm sure you've barely stopped since you got here.”

Quinn shook her head.

“Exactly. And just because you can't go on the field doesn't mean you can't distract yourself. The scribes and proctors are always willing to pass on their skills to those who want to learn. You could improve your knowledge on wasteland history with Proctor Quinlan, the creatures of the wasteland with Scribe Neriah, or you could learn first aid with me.” Cade paused. “Or practice on the shooting range, if you want, though I hear from Paladin Danse you're already a crack shot.”

He smiled at her - Quinn could feel the sincerity, the _kindness_ radiating from him. She wanted nothing to do with it. Her body was pushed as far back into her chair as it would go, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, unable to look at him any longer.

“Let’s...let’s just get this over with.”

* * *

“So, how did it go?”

Carson’s tone was light and cheerful, but the worry was etched deep into his features like a stone carving. His arms were folded tight across his chest as he watched her approach.

“As well as it could have, I guess,” Quinn replied with a shrug. In truth, she felt light headed and shaky, aftershocks of a suffocating session with the knight-captain.

“How are you feeling?”

“You sound like Cade.”

“Well, I did help him around the sickbay while we were waiting for you to wake up.”

“You waited for me?”

“Of _course_ I did,” Carson replied, sounding affronted. “After the state I found you in, and the argument we’d had before…”

“I deserved it,” Quinn said, grinning. “I was being a bitch.”

“True.” Carson gave a cheeky smile. It slipped away almost at once. “But...when I saw how far you’d gone…”

“How did you know what had happened?”

“Case saw you. Told me you’d gone to the bottom of the ship with a bottle of alcohol. She was surprised I wasn’t with you.” He pulled a face. “It just...I had a bad feeling about it. But it took me ages to get to you.”

“I didn't want to be found.”

“No shit. It was only when you dropped that bottle I realised you were under the damn floor.”

Quinn screwed her eyes shut, wracking her brain. Eventually, she said, “I thought I saw Nate. Was that you?”

Carson nodded. “I went for help after you passed out. I would have gone sooner, but you started to panic and…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I found Rachel first and she created a distraction.”

“A distraction?”

“Oh God…” Carson put a hand to his head and something clicked for Quinn.

“Is this the commotion that Cade wouldn't elaborate on?”

“Did he know it was us?” he asked, suddenly sounding alarmed.

“No, I don't think so.” Quinn was confused. What the hell was going on? “He just said you and Casey brought me to him, but no one really noticed because there was a ‘commotion.’”

Carson glanced around the area, biting his lip, his eyes scanning quickly. Quinn looked behind her, but there was no one there. When she turned back to him, he was rubbing his forehead.

“When I found Rachel,” he said in a low voice, “she said that dragging you to Cade in front of everyone was the last thing you needed, because it would be obvious what you’d done. Then she said to me, deliberately in full earshot of a bunch of kids, that she had heard Scribe Neriah’s molerats had escaped, and that we should do a thorough search of the ship for them.”

_“No.”_

“Oh yes. Well, of course, the squires overheard her, and they told everyone else, and suddenly everyone was running around looking for the damn ‘rats, while the officers on duty went to Neriah herself to question her. While everyone else was busy, Casey and I went and got you and carried you up to Cade, pretending you were just ill. Everyone was too busy looking for the molerats to notice you stank of alcohol.”

“Well...that’s certainly a commotion.”

“Oh no...that’s not the worst of it.” Carson hid his face in his hand. “As we carried you up, one of the squires noticed you were completely limp. He panicked and ran off yelling that the molerats had killed you, and suddenly we had a ship-wide panic amongst the squires and the younger initiates that there were killer molerats loose all over the Prydwen. Then that somehow got twisted, and the next thing I know, the entire Brotherhood is on high alert for a biological infiltration, while the officers tried to calm down all the screaming kids running around on the decks.”

Quinn burst out laughing. She supposed she should feel bad, and by the look Carson was giving her, he was still traumatised by the fiasco. But it was just so…

She kept giggling and eventually Carson’s face cracked into a smile.

“It'll be something I'll be able to laugh about later, I'm sure, but for now I'm just glad we got away with it.”

“I'm sorry I put you in that position.”

“I'll believe it if you promise not to do it again.”

She looked at him, an understanding coming between them. Quinn smiled and nodded. “Alright. I promise I won't do it again.”

“Then apology accepted.” Carson returned the smile. “I won't lie - I will bring this up again next time I want to embarrass you.”

They both knew he had no intention of making fun of something so serious, and yet Quinn appreciated the attempt at returning things to normal.

“You wouldn't dare.”

“True. I value the shape of my face too much.”

Quinn laughed and moved to her footlocker, deciding to peruse her books. She had come across the odd intact novel across the Commonwealth, and had taken to collecting them when she could carry them. There was a stash of them in Nick's office back in Diamond City, and since she had joined the Brotherhood, her footlocker was becoming her new personal library.

_Might as well start reading them,_ she thought as she crouched down and opened the box. _I’ve got plenty of time to kill now._

Quinn lifted the lid and felt her breath catch in her throat. Lying on top of the books was a folded mass of blue and yellow fabric, hundreds of years old and yet still practically new. She lifted it out, letting the material run over her trembling fingers.

“What's that? Carson asked, leaning forward to look. Quinn held it up to him, her vault suit unfolding in her hands.

The large hole in the side had been repaired, a faint discoloration indicating where her blood had once stained the cloth. She stared at it, stunned at its sudden relocation. Quinn had left the vault suit tucked away in a compartment on her armour, and in all honesty, had completely forgotten about it.

Danse, it seemed, had not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwback to chapter nine!
> 
> Usual thanks to waiting4morning (ffnet) for amazing beta goodness.
> 
> A quick warning: because Easter is coming up, there may be a delay on the chapter release due to my beta. However, it may also be early (the benefits of being nearly three chapters ahead, writing-wise). But yeah. Heads up in that regard. This applies for the week afterwards, too, as I am visiting a friend and I have no intention of dragging work with me while I'm there.
> 
> Also, I released a lil' Quinn/Danse prompt drabble as a separate story called Spuds, which you can find on my account here. It is a one chapter affair and will not be expanded, and does not tie in with the main plot of this story. It was written purely for fun and because I was feeling really down earlier this week.
> 
> Thanks again for your love! It helps so much. :)
> 
> And Awkward, sorry for that silly misunderstanding. That was entirely my fault and not yours. Still feel a lil' bit mortified about that. xD


	23. Ashen Echoes

 

“I thought you were dead.”

Quinn peered over the top of her book, raising an eyebrow at the small, skinny figure standing at the foot of her bed. The squire’s gaze glittered with hard defiance, his thin arms folded tight as he pouted at her.

Her stomach churned at the sight of him. In the week since her confinement, Quinn had done everything possible to avoid the squires stationed across the Prydwen. Not because she felt guilty that they had been disciplined over the molerat incident - although she _did_ feel guilty about it - but because they were everything that she should have had with Shaun.

“Well, you thought wrong,” she said bluntly, and raised her book again, blocking him from view. The moment he was out of her sight, her racing heart settled slightly, the tightness in her chest easing enough to let her breathe again. God, being here was difficult. It was so _difficult._

“You weren’t awake or anything,” said the squire, his high voice laced with resentful curiosity.

Quinn sighed and lowered her book into her lap, fixing him with her best ‘annoyed parent’ stare. She felt a small twinge of satisfaction as his rebellious glare faltered into uncertainty, and let him stew in it for a moment longer before speaking.

“You’re mad that you got in trouble for your mistake,” she said, knowing full well it was actually _her_ mistake. The guilt bit harder, but she held her tongue. Dropping Carson and Rachel into the shit for their part in the molerat fiasco would result in a lot more than the slap on the wrists that the squires had received. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Squire Cooper,” he said, looking at his feet.

“Your first name?”

“Josh.”

“And your parents?”

“Field Scribe Cooper and Knight-Sergeant Cooper.”

“Pretty cool roles, huh?”

Josh frowned, eyeing her with suspicion. Quinn supposed the word ‘cool’ wasn’t thrown around a lot on the Prydwen. She continued to look at him, smiling blandly, while her heart hammered so hard against her chest it felt like her ribs were about to snap. Josh glanced around quickly and then gave her a little grin.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” he agreed, his face lighting up with excitement. “When I’m older, I want to be a knight-sergeant, just like my mom.”

“What about a paladin?” Quinn said, her smile cracking into the real thing. There was something endearing about the boy.

His eyes went wide. “You think I could be a paladin?”

“Yeah, why not? Aim high.”

“No, but a _real_ paladin? Like Paladin _Danse?”_

The way Josh said Danse’s name sounded like he was talking about a celebrity. Then again, to these kids, maybe he was exactly that.

“Do you like Paladin Danse?” she asked, thumbing the edge of her book absent-mindedly.

“He’s the best!” Josh sat on the end of Quinn’s bed, his face filled with wonder. “The best soldier _ever_ , and Elder Maxson’s most trusted officer. _Ever._ ” His voice suddenly became a hushed whisper, the tone of wild rumour and scandalous gossip. “And...he’s sponsored a vault dweller from _before_ the war. He was frozen for five _hundred_ years in a block of ice. Paladin Danse found him and melted him with his laser rifle, and asked the vault dweller to join, and the vault dweller said _yes.”_

“He?” Quinn felt mildly peeved that the rumours had gotten her gender wrong.

Josh nodded solemnly.

“Check my footlocker at the end of my bed.”

Throwing her a confused look, Josh obliged. The dramatic gasp when he opened the box was enough to fill her with silent laughter, and when he stood up, holding her vault suit, she had to fight to keep her face straight.

“The vault dweller gave you his _suit?”_

Quinn rolled her eyes. _“I’m_ the vault dweller.”

Josh frowned, processing the conflicting information. He glanced at the suit, then at her, and then back to the suit again. His face suddenly lit up, and he bounced from foot to foot, still clutching the suit, and almost threw himself on the bed as he launched into a barrage of questions about pre-war life.

Quinn answered as best she could, and found, to her great surprise, that she enjoyed the exchange. It was almost therapeutic, talking about the past, and the way Josh hung onto her every word calmed her fluttering heart in a way whiskey never had before.

As she talked, some of the other squires drew closer, inching in to listen about baseball and television shows and Twinkie bars and walks in the park and…

A group of children sat around her, some at her feet, staring up in wide-eyed amazement, while others perched on crates or other soldiers’ beds. Quinn blinked. Where had they all come from...and when?

“Then what?” Josh asked eagerly, still holding her vault suit. “What _else_ happened at picnics?”

“I-” began Quinn, feeling suddenly overwhelmed when a sharp voice made them all jump.

“Joshua Cooper!” A man stood behind the gathering, his hands on his hips as he glared down at the collection of squires that Quinn had amassed. Some of them shrieked in surprise, falling off the crates with a bump; others simply scurried to their feet and ran away. Within seconds, Josh was the only one left, frozen in the face of the man’s wrath.

“What have I told you about leaving your position on the ship?” the man said, glaring at him. “Elder Maxson hasn’t put you here for fun and games. You are here to _learn._ And after the trouble you caused last week, I would have thought you’d be on your best behaviour to make up for it!”

“Sorry, Dad,” Josh said, staring at his feet.

“I hope you are. Now give this soldier her things and get back to your station before I tell your mother!”

Josh jumped to his feet, handed Quinn her vault suit with a mumbled apology, and then ran off without looking back.

“Sorry,” Quinn said sheepishly, feeling guilty all over again. “I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to wander the ship.”

“It’s his fault, not yours,” said Field Scribe Cooper, giving her a warm smile. “And I suppose introductions are in order. I’m Stephen Cooper, Field Scribe, as I’m sure you can see.” He gestured to his uniform and then stuck out his hand.

Quinn shook it. “I’m Quinn. Resident pre-war relic and supposed knight, though Cade has me here for a bit of R’n’R at the moment.”

Stephen’s eyes went wide, and Quinn had to bite back a laugh. His son was the image of him. “Oh, so you’re the vault dweller? Fascinating!” He peered at the vault suit in her lap, nodding with recognition. “I wondered what that was. Absolutely wonderful. But...what’s R’n’R? Is that pre-war?”

“Oh, sorry, yeah. Means ‘rest and relaxation.’”

“Ah...yes. I’d heard about that. Word gets around quickly on a small ship.”

“What have they been saying?”

“Nothing much. Just that you’d lost...that you were grieving, and that Knight-Captain Cade felt it was best to give you time to recover.” Stephen smiled again. “We’re a tight-knit family and we poke our noses in each other’s business, but generally speaking, we try not to gossip when it comes to the loss of loved ones. We all know that fear is consistently close to becoming a reality.”

Quinn nodded, but didn’t say anything. Her throat felt tight again.

“You seem to have quite a way with children, though,” Stephen went on. “And your pre-war knowledge far outstrips everyone else’s on this ship, as far as history is concerned. Education is important for us, and Elder Maxson in particular has put emphasis on our squires.”

He frowned and glanced back in the direction his son had left, but then brightened up almost immediately. “My sister, Michelle, teaches the children pre-war history. I’m sure she would love to have your priceless knowledge in her lesson plans. And it would be a good way to keep you busy, if you find yourself restless.”

Quinn considered this. She had been going back to Cade for first aid lessons, but there was still a lot of empty time left to fill. Glancing up at Stephen, she gave him a shy look. “If I did, do you think someone would be able to teach me about the wasteland in general? I’ve been out of the loop for about two hundred years now.”

“How about this? If you help Michelle, I’ll teach you myself.”

“And Michelle won’t mind me butting in on her lessons?”

“If anything, I think she’ll welcome the help.”

Quinn paused, riddled with uncertainty. Her solitude had served her well so far; she didn’t particularly want to give it up. But Carson had been nagging her to keep herself busy, recommending helping Cade in the sickbay as a place to start. She didn’t want to be near Cade again just yet. His evaluation had taken a lot out of her.

Stephen waited patiently, wearing a polite and unobtrusive expression; Quinn had a feeling that if she refused, he would accept graciously. That alone made her soften towards him. No expectations, no demands - just an offer, if she wanted it.

Quinn stuck out her hand. “In that case, we have a deal.”

Smiling widely, Stephen placed his palm in hers and shook. “Excellent. And on that note, I must take my leave. I have duties to attend to, as well as letting Michelle know that you will be joining her soon enough. Ad Victoriam, sister.” He saluted her, a gesture that Quinn returned, and then left.

The book in her lap suddenly seemed dull, the urge to wander returning in full force, despite the fact Quinn had explored every inch of the Prydwen three times over since Danse had left. She knew every nook and cranny in the twisting, metal maze, every guard patrol, every haunt of every noteworthy soldier. Carson’s favourite place to lurk was on the walkways of the upper deck, out of the way of everyone else, but not slumming at the bottom of the ship.

 _Actually,_ Quinn thought to herself, _I haven’t seen him at all today. Odd._

Putting her book and vault suit back in her footlocker, she set off up the stairs to the upper deck with the mission of finding her friend. And find him she did; however, Carson was not alone.

Quinn paused halfway along the walkway, watching the person stood next to him with a beady eye. The stranger wore the typical orange jumpsuit; it clashed horribly with his hair. Over the top he had on a brown bomber jacket, and something clunked into place in Quinn’s head. That was a _lancer’s_ bomber jacket.

_Kapraski._

Quinn paused, unsure if she was intruding on something; her curiosity got the better of her. Shuffling back a little so she was just out of sight, she watched, wondering what they were talking about. Nothing happened.

Starting to grow bored, Quinn straightened up and turned to leave, just as she saw Carson move out of the corner of her eye. Her head whipped back to face them, and she watched with mounting anxiety as Carson suddenly reached out and grabbed Kapraski’s hand. Kapraski jumped and looked at him, and Carson stared at his feet, still holding onto the other man’s hand. There was a long pause, and Carson seemed to lose his nerve, trying to tug his arm away from Kapraski. But Kapraski held on, saying something that Quinn couldn’t hear. Carson clearly did, though, because his head snapped up in the lancer’s direction, his entire body rigid with shock.

Kapraski tugged Carson gently forward, bringing his free hand up to touch Carson’s face, his thumb caressing the knight’s cheek with a softness that didn’t match his stocky frame. Kapraski hesitated, and then leaned in, pressing his lips against Carson’s.

Quinn stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to muffle the yell of joy that was bursting to break free, before creeping back down the walkway. She was definitely intruding now, and they deserved their privacy.

As softly as she could manage, Quinn made her way back down the stairs, and was almost immediately confronted by Rachel. Perhaps her face was the image of guilt, because the knight-sergeant raised an eyebrow at her, and then smirked.

“Hey. Wanna get off this old rust bucket for a while?”

“I, uh…Cade says I can’t.” Quinn fidgeted, wondered what Rachel had planned. “I have to stay on the-”

“Oh, I know that,” Rachel interrupted, waving her hand. “But I spoke with the good doctor and he’s agreed to let you leave the Prydwen for a while, so long as you’re under my supervision. I thought you were probably going a bit stir crazy by now, being cooped up in here.”

She was allowed to leave the ship! Grinning from ear to ear, Quinn bounced on the spot. “Really? When? Can we go now?”

“You’re like a kid!” laughed Rachel. “Yeah, we can go now.” She motioned for her to follow, and the two of them made their way through the ship to the outside deck, Quinn nearly skipping with excitement every step of the way.

The wind whipped through her clothes as they reached the fresh air, and Quinn breathed in deep, her eyes scanning the vast wasteland before her, the horizon broken by the crumbling city skyline. Rachel was halfway towards the vertibirds before Quinn noticed, and she had to run to catch up with the knight-sergeant. By the time Quinn reached her, Rachel was bickering with one of the lancers.

“She’s not allowed on! She’s grounded!” the lancer insisted, folding her arms.

“For Christ’s sake, Cade has given me permission to escort her,” Rachel snapped. “If anyone pulls you up on it, say I threatened to break your nose or something. I’m sure they’d believe you.”

The lancer considered Rachel for a moment, and then rolled her eyes. “Fine!”

“Hey, less of the attitude.” If Rachel’s voice had been sharp before, it was nothing compared to now. It sounded like it could cut diamond with ease. “I’m not one for pulling rank, but I bet the other knight-sergeants don’t get any of this shit.”

With a paling face, the lancer sat up straight in their seat. “Yes ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Better.” She nodded to Quinn. “Come on, before all this official crap gives me a migraine.”

“Yes...ma’am,” Quinn said with a smirk as she clambered into the vertibird. Rachel batted her lightly across the back of the head as she went, before following her inside.

Quinn’s stomach lurched as the aircraft dipped towards the earth, and she clutched at the metal supports, suddenly feeling as if she was about to tumble straight out to the ground below. When they touched down, she almost flung herself out, staggering as her feet hit solid ground. Her body reeled, the absence of the subtle swaying of the airship throwing her off-balance. Rachel grabbed hold of her at the last second, pulling her upright before she fell.

“You alright?” she asked, frowning.

“Yeah, just...acclimatising to not being six hundred feet up in the air anymore.” Quinn clutched at Rachel, afraid she would keel over if she let go.

“Acclimatising?” The knight-sergeant gave her a sly grin. “You’re starting to sound a little bit like Danse.”

Quinn flushed and bit her lip. The mere mention of Danse was enough to make her stomach turn. He had drifted in and out of her head since he had left, her anger ebbing away almost immediately with the discovery of her vault suit. Quinn had pushed each intrusive, stupid thought away without mercy. Danse was not here. There was no point dwelling on his absence.

The vertibird took off without ceremony, spraying them both with grit and dust. Quinn coughed as it got in her nose, eyes, and hair, while Rachel let out a stream of swear words so strong even Quinn was taken aback.

“I’ll report that stuck-up little bitch to Danse when he gets back,” she snarled, spitting out a mouthful of dirt with such venom, Quinn wondered how the lancer had had the balls to sass Rachel in the first place. Rachel’s face relaxed as she turned to Quinn. “You doing alright? Can you walk?”

“Yeah. Think my legs have caught up with the change of scenery.”

The knight-sergeant let go of her, and Quinn took a few steps gingerly, testing herself. There wasn’t so much as a wobble. Grinning, Quinn trailed after Rachel who gestured to her as she walked away. She took in every detail of the landscape, wanting to drink it all in before her eventual return to confinement. For miles, all she could see was rolling hills of washed out dirt and dead grass, the skeleton of Boston a macabre backdrop.

Quinn’s senses felt like they were overloading. Life on the Prydwen had been a muted existence, the endless steel and artificial lighting, the faint, industrial smell of car workshops becoming as familiar to her as her own voice.

Now, however, everything felt so…

Bright wasn’t quite the word. The colours of the wasteland were still muted, but they were tones of earthy browns and greens, dashed with a hint of ashy highlights. They were a stark contrast from the cool, dark greys of the Prydwen’s metalwork, and the harsh greens and reds of its lighting.

A gust of cool wind blew the remaining traces of grit from her skin, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the faint sensation. It was good to be free from the stifling atmosphere of the ship.

_Thud._

Quinn walked straight into Rachel, and fell backwards with a bump. The woman was like a boulder, and she simply stared down at Quinn, looking uncharacteristically sombre. Rachel offered out a hand, and Quinn took it, allowing herself to be pulled up. As she dusted herself down, Rachel sat down on a nearby rock as she reached into her uniform pocket, pulling out a battered, silver zip light with the Brotherhood symbol scratched into the metal. A cigar followed. She lit it and dragged deeply, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

The hand holding the cigar was shaking.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked back at Quinn. “Cade said you’d lost your husband and your kid. Is that right?”

After the way everyone else had been delicately tiptoeing around the issue, Rachel’s bluntness caught Quinn off guard. She nodded before she could stop herself, her insides squirming horribly at the question.

Rachel made a small noise and dragged, more desperately this time, exhaling the smoke in a great gush of air. “He asked me if I would be willing to talk to you. Figured it would do us both some good. I agreed, but...fuck. This is harder than I thought it was going to be.”

A lead weight dropped in Quinn’s stomach as the pieces clicked together in her head. “You were a mother?”

“I still am. It’s not something you ever just _stop_ being.” Rachel stared at the end of her cigar, watching it smoulder. “But in truth...my daughter is still alive out there, somewhere. And...I think your son is, too.”

“I...no, he’s dead!” Quinn insisted, realising too late that she had just confirmed Rachel’s suspicions. Time seemed to stop, her heart racing as a chill swept over her. Shaun. _Shaun._ What would happen now? What questions would she get? Would they find him? Would they _know?_

“Relax,” said Rachel. “Your business is your own. I just knew from the moment I heard. I’ve seen grieving parents before, but yours is a different kind of grief. More complicated. Kind of...kind of like mine.”

“I don’t understand,” Quinn replied quietly. How the hell could Rachel Marguerie know what she was going through? With growing apprehension, she began to feel that perhaps she didn’t _want_ to know.

Rachel flicked the ash off the end of her cigar. “My surname wasn’t always Marguerie. I only became Mrs Rachel _Marguerie…”_

Rachel paused, savouring the name with a faint smile.

“...when I married George. He was…I loved him. Met him on a tour of the wasteland in my early days in the Brotherhood, and although he never signed up with us, he agreed with our ideals to the letter. Really admired me for what I did.”

Her eyes became unfocused as she drifted into the past. Then they snapped back to Quinn with a sudden fierceness. “Ever heard of a group called the Enclave?” When Quinn shook her head, Rachel went on, “Bunch of assholes, in short. Started a war with the Brotherhood around ten years ago that got a lot of our best killed, Paladin Krieg included.”

Quinn’s ears perked up at Krieg’s name, but she barely had time to dwell on it as Rachel carried on talking.

“Think they own the country; think they’re the government. But I did my duty - we _all_ did our duty - and we fought them off.” She grinned. “Not long after, I became pregnant. Post-war party and all that.

“I took leave and we moved to a Brotherhood settlement in DC. Secluded, but well defended. Pockets of the Enclave still existed, and they threw the occasional attack at the Citadel. Nothing that couldn’t be handled, but it always worried me that one day something _big_ might happen. I didn’t want my daughter being raised in an area that was always at risk of an assault.”

“That seems sensible enough,” said Quinn, wondering where the story was going.

“You’d think so.” Another drag on the cigar, adding to the increasingly growing cloud of smoke. “I thought so.”

Rachel stretched out with a groan and began tapping her feet on the ground, sending small puffs of dust up with the rhythm of her impact. Quinn watched her carefully, noticing pale skin had taken on a grey tinge, and her mouth had become a thin, hard line of dread.

 _She’s playing for time,_ she thought to herself, as Rachel continued to do everything except talk. Quinn waited patiently, her stomach twisting, wondering what was coming. It had to be bad if it was reducing the steely knight-sergeant to a nervous, jittering mess.

“Eventually, I went back,” Rachel said suddenly, the words coming out in a forced, hurried stream. “It killed me to leave them behind, but it had to be done. Caps were running short, and...I missed the Brotherhood. I missed being on the field. But, I still went back to visit them every time I had leave, even though I had to trek halfway across the Capital Wasteland to get to them. That’s, uh, D.C. to you.”

Quinn nodded in appreciation at Rachel’s explanation.

Rachel gave her a weak smile. “But not long after Cutler…” She paused. “You know about Cutler, don’t you?”

“Danse told me.”

“I thought as much. The look on your face when I mentioned him last week…I didn’t think anyone else but those involved knew about it. You two must be close.”

Quinn shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Nah. I _know_ so. All jokes about mannerisms aside, it’s pretty obvious to me that you get along pretty damn well, because that’s not something Danse would share lightly. And that’s a good thing. He needs someone he can depend on, rather than just being the rock for everyone else all the time.” Rachel stubbed out her half-finished cigar and threw it away. There was a pause, and then she immediately lit up another. “Anyway...not long after Cutler, I received news that…that...”

Her face darkened, and Quinn sensed a bombshell was imminent. It was in the way Rachel held herself, jaw clenched, arms close to her chest, the cigar jittering in her fingers, spraying ash everywhere. The knight-sergeant tried a few times to speak, puffed on her smoke, and then almost threw the words out.

“...that the last remnants of the Enclave had bombed the settlement.”

Rachel jammed the cigar in her mouth, the tip quivering as she inhaled from it over and over, the smoke becoming so thick around her, she became little more than a silhouette.

Quinn was horrified. “But...but _why?”_

“Maybe a way of saying _‘fuck you’_ to the Elder. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter - it was a settlement of civilians, a settlement of families with _children._ My little girl was only _six,_ for God’s sake.”

Rachel broke off, and from the depths of the thick smog, Quinn heard sniffing, but nothing else. After a while, the smoke dispersed, and she saw Rachel wiping at her eyes with her free hand, tears evading her fingers and rolling down her cheeks. The knight-sergeant offered an apologetic smile.

Quinn returned it, and tentatively said, “I’m confused. You...you said they didn’t die.”

“They didn’t,” Rachel replied. “They got away.”

“Then why…?”

“Elder Maxson ordered a team over there as damage control. The old crowd. Cooper and Cooper, Danse, and a few other forgettable faces. Even though I was part of Danse’s squad, I was given permission to remain behind. I declined it. Danse tried to convince me to stay back, but I told him Hell itself would have to swallow me whole to stop me from finding my family. He relented pretty quickly after that, but...kept an eye on me.”

She took a deep breath, apparently having forgotten about the cigar burning slowly away between her fingers, and went on. “The place was a mess when we got there. No one left alive. I went straight to the room that had been George’s, and found it empty...no bodies.”

“What happened to them?”

“I searched the room after everyone else started cleanup, moving the dead, clearing the wreckage, and I found a holotape buried under a pile of rubble. Badly singed, dented. I took it to Danse and asked if there was a way to play it. Cooper overheard and said there was. They set up some equipment in a private area for me, and...it _worked._.”

There was the pain now. Quinn could see it in the other woman’s eyes. Real pain, haunting and raw, so intense it rolled off her, burning everything it touched. She winced as the knight-sergeant stared blankly ahead, apparently unaware her cigar had now gone out.

“It was George’s voice,” Rachel said finally. “George, telling me he’d managed to escape, and that he was heading east to a nearby cave he knew was uninhabited. Told me how to get there, told me...that he loved me. That he would always love me, and...but he sounded _wrong._ I couldn’t place it at the time, but I knew that he didn’t sound like _my_ George. But I had to find him...both of them.”

“No one tried to stop you?”

“They wouldn’t have dared. Not just because of me, but because of Danse, too. They all knew how important it was, the same way we had all known how important finding Cutler had been for Danse. They offered to come with me, but I had a feeling I had to do it alone. I was right.”

Rachel let out a shuddering sigh, and stubbed out her half finished cigar, flicking it away and hugging herself tight. All at once, the fierce soldier looked like a small child, afraid and alone. Quinn wanted to reach out and hug her, but found herself frozen to the spot.

“I found them. I…” Rachel leaned forward, putting a hand to her head, talking at her feet. “Ghouls. Both of them.”

Quinn’s sharp intake of breath reflected the pain etched in Rachel’s face. Ghosts lingered in the hurt that lined her features, ghosts that still lived, whether she wanted them to or not.

“I didn’t stay long after that. Just...just long enough to relocate them to somewhere safe. Away from the Brotherhood. Away from me.”

Quinn’s mouth dropped open. “Away from you? But _why?_ Your daughter is _alive._ Your husband is _alive.”_

“And I am a knight-sergeant of the Brotherhood of Steel, an organisation known for its hatred of ghouls. An organisation whose morals I uphold, without question.” Rachel stared sadly at her hands. “There is no happy ending here, Quinn.”

“But…” She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with ghouls, for fuck’s sake! There’s nothing wrong with your daughter or your husband! How could you abandon them like that?”

“Because try as I might, I can’t get past what I’ve been taught, what I believe in. The work I do for the Brotherhood is important-”

“Your _daughter_ is more important! How can you do that to her?”

“Because I love her!” Rachel snapped, suddenly on her feet. Quinn took a step back as the knight-sergeant breathed heavily through her nose, her cheeks stained with patches of red.

“I _love_ my daughter. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think of her. But she doesn’t deserve a mother who can’t even bear to look at her. She doesn’t deserve a mother whose very _connections_ put her life at risk. And...one day, she’ll turn feral. So will George. I can’t watch that happen. I just...I _can’t._ There is no other option for me - it’s better for everyone that she simply thinks I am dead.”

The silence that followed this outburst hung heavily in the air, taunting Quinn with the bitter whispers in the back of her mind. _‘Shaun’,_ it crooned, scratching at the inside of her skull. _‘You abandoned your child because he affronted your morals. You are no better than her.’_

“What happened to them?” Quinn croaked as Rachel sat back down again, looking broken.

“I talked with George,” Rachel said dully, “and we agreed going our separate ways was for the best. I helped organise safe passage for them to another part of the country, in a ghoul-only settlement. That way, at least my child would grow up in a community that accepted her, with a father that loved her unconditionally. George wasn’t happy about the idea of being surrounded by ghouls, but...he wasn’t happy about a lot of things, really. He did it anyway. For her. For me.”

She rubbed at her eyes again, and then began to pat her pockets. “I send them my wages by courier, so it can’t be traced by the Brotherhood. I may not be there for them, but at least I can ensure they eat well.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“Once.” Rachel pulled out a slightly bent cigar from her pocket, along with her zip lighter, and held them in her hands. “I didn’t let them know I was there. She’s gotten a lot bigger since I last saw her.” She gave a faint smile. “It’s amazing how quickly they grow.”

“Wait, she’s growing up? But she’s a ghoul.” Quinn was confused. Ghouls were supposed to be immortal.

“Yeah, I thought the same, but no, she’s aging. When I first found them, George had become a full ghoul, while she was still slowly going through the early stages. He told me when the settlement was bombed, she had been on the outskirts of town and didn’t receive as big a dose of radiation as him. After seeing her since, it’s the only reason I can find to explain why she’s aging and he isn’t.”

“Have you asked Scribe Neriah about this?”

“No.” Rachel shook her head. “And I never will. No one else knows about this, except…well, except Danse.”

“Danse? He’s never mentioned it.”

“And nor would he. If it’s not your business, he won’t talk about it.”

Rachel had a point there. Why on earth would Danse tell her such intimate details about a woman she barely knew?

Rachel smiled sadly at her. “I don’t know how similar this is to your situation, but…”

“My son is with the Institute.”

Quinn had no idea what made her say it. The confession had escaped before she could stop it, staining the conversation with her guilt, with her sins. Rachel’s mouth fell open as she dropped her cigar on her lap, only noticing when it burnt a hole through her uniform.

“Shit!” She picked it up and jammed it between her teeth, before brushing the hot ash and cinders off herself. Inspecting the damage for only a moment, Rachel quickly turned her attention back to Quinn. “Really?”

“I...oh God,” Quinn babbled, panic flaring up inside her. “Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t want him to die. I don’t-”

“Hey, hey,” Rachel interrupting, her voice low and calm. “I’ve just unfolded my biggest secret to you, though God knows why.” She frowned. “I didn’t plan for this talk to reveal everything about me, and yet here we are. But now I say we have equal reason not to start telling tales on each other, right?”

Quinn nodded, her racing heart settling slightly.

“So...if you want to, then talk to me about it.” Rachel leaned back against the rock, chewing absentmindedly on her cigar.

The whole truth...now that was dangerous. But a half truth? Quinn could live with that. She told Rachel that she had found proof on Kellogg that her son worked for the Institute, that he was old and at the end of his life. That he helped with the experiments she hated so much. Quinn left out that she had visited the Institute in person, and that Father was the leader of the organisation. By the time she had finished, the knight-sergeant was in danger of dropping her smoke again.

“Jesus Christ,” Rachel mumbled, flicking aside her unfinished cigar. She stood up and moved over to Quinn, pulling her into a gentle hug. She smelled of smoke, engine oil, and something sweet lurking under all the heavier scents. To Quinn’s annoyance, she felt herself crying again, clutching tightly at Rachel’s clothes. The knight-sergeant held her tighter, making soothing noises in her ear, until suddenly her voice became choked.

Quinn wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, entangled in each other’s grief, but by the slight shakes of the knight-sergeant’s shoulders, Quinn was convinced she was crying too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst for Easter. Yaaaaaay.
> 
> Happy Easter, everyone! Thanks to my beta, waiting4morning, for their amazing help as always. Thank you to everyone for their reviews! They all make me smile so much. :)
> 
> Just a reminder that next week I will be visiting a friend in another part of the country, so there is a chance the next chapter will be delayed. I'll post it as soon as I'm able!
> 
> (also, I've realised that this definitely gonna be more than 30 chapters long...I've been planning ahead, and honestly I'm nowhere near the end yet...oops)


	24. West of Washington

A sharp, clear ringing brought the entire room out of its lull. Quinn leaned over, glad she hadn’t sworn in surprise, and hit the top of the old alarm clock, silencing it.

“Alright, everyone,” she called out. “Time’s up. Hand your papers in, please.”

The squires stood up from the cafeteria tables, which had been cleared that morning for the exam with Maxson’s permission, and filed towards her, looking nervous. They gave her their answer sheets, one by one, before leaving with their heads bowed. Joshua Cooper was the last to approach, looking sick with worry as he hesitated, before passing Quinn his work.

Quinn gave him a little wink. “You’ll be fine, Josh. Relax.”

Josh nodded, but didn’t smile, and quickly left the mess hall. Sighing, Quinn leant back in her seat, shuffling the papers. Already she could see at least three of the kids had gotten Washington State and Washington D.C. confused; she chuckled to herself and stood up, nodding to the mess hall officer.

“Thanks for letting us use the space.”

“No problem,” he replied, grinning. “Gives me a nice break from the grunts bitching about noodles being on the menu again.”

Quinn laughed and left, heading towards the section of the Prydwen where the scribes lurked. She needed to find Michelle and check their answers together to make sure there were no mistakes. Stephen Cooper hadn’t been lying when he had said the Brotherhood was big on education.

“Quinn!”

Quinn turned in time to see Casey Shingler -  who was running full pelt towards her - trip over her own feet and collide head on with her in an explosion of paper that sent them both skidding down the walkway. Quinn stared up at the ceiling, the world swaying from side to side, barely aware of the hysterical laughter of the mess hall officer, or the fact Casey was now splayed out on top of her, groaning.

“And this, ladies, is why we don’t _run_ on the Prydwen.”

Tilting her head slightly, Quinn saw Carson stood over them wearing a shit-eating grin.

“Carson, I swear to God-”

“Alright, alright, hang on.” He crouched down and scooped his hands under Casey’s arms, lifting her to her feet with ease. The scribe staggered, leaning heavily on the railings, clutching a hand to her forehead as Carson pulled Quinn up, still smirking.

“You alright?” she said to Casey, who was red faced and looking worse for wear.

“Yeah, just…” Casey looked down at the papers all over the floor, and then leaned over the rails to the floors beneath. “Oh, _darn it._ That’ll take ages to pick up and sort out.”

“What was it?”

“Notes from my interview with you. I just wanted to make some adjustments with things I found in pre-war history books and those tourist guides you recommended. What were yours?”

“The squires’ exams.”

“Oh, darn it!” Casey repeated, her eyes widening. “They’re so important! We need to get them now! We need to-!”

“Case, calm down,” said Carson, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll help. Come on.”

The three of them spent the next twenty minutes running up and down the various levels of the Prydwen, picking up pieces of paper and throwing them into random piles, before spending another fifteen in the cafeteria, extracting all the squires’ answer sheets and putting them in a neat little pile. While they worked, the mess hall officer brought over an ice-cold Nuka Cola for each of them.

“That crash was the funniest thing I’ve seen all week,” he said, smiling shyly at Casey, before giving Quinn a friendly wink. “Here, on the house.”

When the papers were eventually sorted, Quinn drained the last of her drink and took her leave, hoping Michelle wouldn’t be too angry at how late she was. Not that Michelle Cooper wasn’t a nice woman - she was. But she also stressed about every little thing, and when you were in charge of a group of restless children pretending to be adults, there was a lot to stress about.

“Where were you?” Michelle snapped, descending on Quinn as she reached the scribes’ section of the Prydwen. She wrenched the papers out of Quinn’s hands and hurried back to her desk, pouring over them.

“Bumped into a friend,” Quinn said, deciding she couldn’t be bothered explaining. She sat down next to Michelle and pulled one of the old books towards her, being careful not to damage the fragile piece of literature any further.

“Why do they keep mixing up Washington state and Washington D.C.?” Michelle said despairingly as they worked their way through the tests. Six of the squires had gotten it wrong.

“It was a pretty common thing back before the war, too. Don’t worry about it.”

“But Elder Maxson wants them educated properly, the same way he was! This isn’t acceptable! This isn’t-”

“They’re _kids,”_ Quinn said firmly, fixing her with a stern look. “They’re not going to remember it all straight away, no matter how brilliant Max - _Elder_ Maxson was when he was their age. What matters is that they’re trying, and they’re willing to learn. You know how many children flunked school in my day?”

_Me included. Well, almost._

“They’ll get it eventually, I promise. Just keep up the good work, encourage them with positive thinking, and they’ll do it at their own pace.”

Michelle let out a deep, whooshing breath, and nodded. “You’re right. You’re right. I’m just...thanks.”

Quinn smiled. “It’s okay. Want me to get you anything?”

“No, no, I’m good. I think we’re finished here, anyway. Thanks again for the help.”

“Anytime.” Quinn stood up and stretched, ironing out the pains in her neck and back from being hunched over the test results. As she looked up, she saw senior scribe Neriah at the cage of her precious molerats, writing on a peeling clipboard. Now would be the perfect opportunity to ask her a few questions.

“Senior Scribe Neriah?” Quinn said as she edged over.

“For the last time,” Neriah said, glaring at her, “my specimens did _not_ escape their cages. I don’t know where this ridiculous rumour has come from, but I can assure my work is secure in their-”

“Actually, I just wanted to ask a few questions about ghouls. Scribe Cooper has been teaching me about the wasteland geography and history, but you seem like the right person to go to about the biology of wasteland creatures.”

Neriah peered over her notes curiously. “Ah, wait. You’re the vault dweller, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me.” The senior scribe swept past her, leading her to a desk on the other side of the area. She sat down at it and gestured for Quinn to pull up a chair, before opening a drawer and pulling out a huge book, stuffed with loose pieces of paper. Neriah opened it and flicked through; Quinn was astounded to see it was filled with tiny, almost unintelligible handwriting.

“Did you write this book?” she asked, impressed.

“Yes.” Neriah continued to turn the pages, apparently looking for something. “Notes from my studies on the various inhabitants and animals of the wasteland. I have an entire section on ghouls.” She stopped, and pointed her finger over the page without touching it. “Here we are. Ghouls. What did you want to know?”

“Well...how they age, mostly...but I don’t really know much about them at all. I’ve noticed some ghouls that I’ve spoken to talk about being around since the war and haven’t changed a bit, but some others are recent, and yet are slowly aging. Why?”

“Well, since your overall knowledge is lacking, I’ll give you a brief overview.” Neriah flipped a page and pointed at a section of the book. “Necrotic post-humans - that’s _‘ghouls’_ to you - are created from intense and prolonged radiation sickness, and typically they have a greatly extended lifespan, with a rumoured ability to not only be immune to radiation, but also potentially heal from it, too. Transformation time varies, depending on the genetics of the individual and how much radiation they are exposed to, but it can range from hours to a year.”

“Hours?” Quinn said, stunned.

Neriah nodded. “Hours. The more radiation they are exposed to, the quicker the change, and the more drastic the transformation is.” She gestured to a series of intricate, hand drawn diagrams of ghoul anatomy. “Quick transformation is considered to be much more painful and traumatic - or at least by the individuals I have interviewed - and the result is often a ghoul who looks more like a corpse than their slow-exposed counterparts.”

“You’ve...interviewed ghouls?”

“Yes,” Neriah said impatiently. “I have no time for the petty prejudices some of my brothers and sisters indulge in. I needed data, so I interviewed them. Their first-hand accounts were nearly priceless to my research. What is interesting is that it appears that the radiation has affected their regeneration abilities. Limbs can be reattached with the more irradiated ghouls, and the most badly affected pre-war specimens appear to not age at all.

“However, it is my theory that ghouls _do_ age, but the background radiation of the wasteland continually slows it down, meaning we still haven’t reached a point where a ghoul will die of old age yet. I believe it will happen eventually, though.”

“Do all ghouls age the same, then?”

“No. Think of it like this: the more radiation exposure, the slower the aging rate. Some ghouls are only barely ghouls, and age at the same rate, or just a little slower, than a ‘normal’ human. Those kinds of ghouls are exceptionally rare, though. I have only interviewed one in my time, and his transformation had been very recent. While he looked like a ghoul, his deformity was merely a loss of some of his skin and minor body parts, such as his nose, ears, and hair.”

_Well,_ Quinn thought to herself. _That explains Rachel’s daughter. I’ll have to tell her later. Maybe it’ll help her come to terms with it._

“I believe, however,” Neriah went on, “that if he went into a highly irradiated area himself, his ‘ghoulification’ would increase to the point of completion, in which his appearance would further degrade, but his lifespan would increase. A fair payoff, considering he was already being stigmatised by his peers for his condition, without the benefits of a longer life.”

“What happened to him?”

“Unfortunately, I am unsure. He left to go find such an irradiated area, with promises to give me data on his experiences. Not long after, Elder Maxson declared we would be leaving for the Commonwealth, and I was assigned to this ship for the journey.” Neriah sighed, looking wistful. “The sooner we go back, the better. I am eager to find out what became of him. Hopefully he didn’t succumb to ferocious post-necrotic dystrophy.”

“Post-necrotic what now?”

“Apologies. The layman’s term for it is ‘going feral.’”

“I’ve never understood it,” Quinn said, frowning. “What causes them to go feral?”

Neriah flipped forward in her book. “There are multiple theories, but the most plausible ones all agree on one principle foundation: the radiation causes their brains to rot, to the point where they can no longer function like a civilised, intelligent individual. Their aggression increases, along with their appetites, and oddly enough, they stop giving out body heat.”

“Their brains _rot?”_

The senior scribe nodded. “Precisely. But as we know, not all ghouls go feral at the same time - there are pre-war ghouls still in full control of themselves, and there are new ghouls that go feral after only a few months. There are two main theories as to why this happens. One suggests that ghouls with further prolonged radiation exposure run an increased risk of becoming feral, which would explain why every glowing ghoul that I have encountered has been feral. There were rumours of a glowing ghoul that had remained civilised, but I honestly think that is nonsense…”

“So you think that theory is true?” Quinn asked, wanting to get the scribe back on track.

Neriah shook her head. “It doesn’t explain why some pre-war ghouls with much higher levels of radiation exposure have not gone feral. No, I think the second theory holds a lot more weight than the first.”

“Which is?”

“The prejudice and isolation that many ghouls endure, coupled with the trauma of the change, causes them to slowly fall prey to their condition. It has been noted in many unofficial studies that a majority of feral ghouls were individuals who were isolated from - or ostracised by - their peers. Meanwhile, ghouls who are accepted in their communities, or live in ghoul-only settlements, have a substantially lower incident rate of ferals.”

“So...people treating them like monsters because they’re scared of ferals could be making them into ferals?”

“A crude, sweeping way of putting it, but in its most basic form...yes. It is my belief that if we wish to eradicate feral ghouls from the wasteland altogether, then first we must understand _why_ it happens in the first place.” Neriah sighed and gave the Prydwen a dark look. “Sadly, I am almost alone in that sentiment.”

Before Quinn could respond, a scribe approached them carrying a huge stack of books. Neriah put her research away and stood up. “I will have to cut this short. Did I answer all of your questions?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. I must say, it has been refreshing to meet another open-minded individual on this ship. I hope we can talk again soon. Farewell.”

Neriah strode away, taking half of the stack of books with her, the other scribe hurrying after her. Quinn watched her go, and then strolled off in the opposite direction humming to herself. So, it sounded like Rachel’s daughter was, at best, some form of half ghoul, unless she was exposed to further radiation. Was it worth telling the knight-sergeant about this? It might help her reconnect with her family. On the other hand, it might drive her further away.

Josh was standing at attention at the end of the walkway, staring determinedly ahead. After abandoning his post several more times over the last month, his mother had dragged him to a corner by the ear and given him a telling off so loud the entire Prydwen had heard it. He had been the embodiment of discipline and dedication ever since.

“Hey,” Quinn said as she approached.

“Ma’am,” said Josh, saluting her.

“Want to hear your test score?”

His eyes went so wide, he looked like a startled owl; Quinn had to bite back a laugh. He nodded vigorously, so she bent down and whispered in his ear, _“One hundred percent.”_

Josh whooped with delight, bouncing on the spot, just as his mother marched into view. While Stephen Cooper looked like a balding, slightly ruffled pigeon, Vivian Cooper held herself the way a tiger with chronic toothache would.

“Joshua Cooper!” she barked, glaring at him. “What have I told you about-?”

“Full marks, mom!” he cried, face shining with delight. “One hundred percent! I got one hundred percent!”

Vivian paused, her jaw dropping, before smiling. She ran to her son, scooping him up into a bear hug and peppering him with kisses. “Oh, well _done!”_

“Mom!” moaned Josh, squirming in her grip, but Quinn caught his surprised grin.

His mother set him down, beaming with pride, and ruffled his hair. “Just wait until I tell your father. I think he may have to visit Proctor Teagan for a special treat tonight.”

“Fancy Lad Snack Cakes?” Josh gasped.

“We’ll see. Proctor Teagan might not have them.”

“See you later, Josh,” Quinn said, deciding to leave them be.

“Bye!” he said, before turning back to his mother. As Quinn walked away, she heard him ask his mother if he could leave his post, _just for a second,_ and then heard running footsteps as he yelled, “Wait, Quinn!”

Quinn stopped and faced him, just as he threw his arms around her middle, hugging her tight.

“Thanks for the help!” He let go and ran back to his mother, who was watching Quinn with a kind eye. She nodded, her eyes offering her gratitude, and then crouched down to hug her son again.

Quinn left. As much as she liked Josh, she couldn’t bear to look at the scene any longer. It made her think too much of Shaun.

Instead, Quinn wandered off towards Teagan’s little corner of the world - she had been avoiding him ever since she had gotten drunk, but now she really wanted to work on her armour again, and he had all the equipment she needed. Of course, he would know that her ‘radiation sickness’ had been something else entirely. The man was not stupid, and as he had sold her the whiskey shortly before her blackout, Teagan would have likely put two and two together.

Had he told anyone else?

No one had mentioned alcohol to her. But then again, they could just be talking about it when she wasn’t around. Quinn sighed, trying to push the paranoia away. Cade had told her it was a symptom of her grief, expecting the worst to try and soften the blow when something did go wrong. After all, if it was expected, how could it hurt her?

A lot, it had turned out. She had spent a great deal of time with Cade over the last month, helping him with the other soldiers and learning the tricks of the trade. Over time, she had come to know the same old faces - the thrill seekers, the reckless, the brave, the stupid, the broken - they all had their place in Cade’s office.

Her favourite had been the knight with a torn ligament in his leg. He had tried to lie about what he’d done, but eventually the truth had come out: the soldiers - and not just the grunts - had been jumping from the highest places they could find, in order to set a record. Unmodified power armour, able to walk away afterwards - those were the only rules.

The grilling Cade had given the poor knight had been enough to reduce Quinn to tears of laughter. However, when Cade had sent him away, she noticed he didn’t report the knight for misconduct. When she had questioned him why, the knight-captain had shrugged.

_“Soldiers will be soldiers. I think they’re idiots, but I won’t take away what small entertainment they have. It helps to keep morale up.”_

The strange thing was, the more she worked with Cade, the more the others noticed her. On more than one occasion, someone who she had helped patch up once for a minor injury had greeted her in the corridor with a smile. Or given her a little nod from across the armour stations. Or included her in a joke or a conversation while she waited in line for breakfast.

Perhaps it was this then that was soothing the pain in her chest. It all still hurt terribly, but instead of a sharp, cutting agony, it was more like a throbbing ache, calmed by the warmth that now surrounded her.

Quinn had told Cade this, and he had smiled, before asking if she had spoken with Rachel.

_“Yes.”_

_“And did it help?”_

Now that had been the kicker question. Quinn wasn’t sure how she felt about Rachel Marguerie after their talk. Resentful, maybe, that Rachel had her family but wouldn’t see them. Ashamed, because Quinn knew she had done the same with Shaun. But most of all...what?

Pity, understanding...relief? No matter what Shaun had done, Quinn still loved him, and for that reason, she couldn’t be near him. There was someone in the world who _knew_ what it meant to endure this. That was more comforting to Quinn than words could explain.

_“Yes. I think it helped.”_

The biggest shock to Quinn was that this utterance was not a lie. For the first time in months, Quinn had hope.

_I will get through this._

“How’s your radiation sickness, knight?”

Quinn jumped. She had walked on autopilot all the way up to Teagan’s storeroom. He raised an eyebrow at her, leaning forward through the gap in the mesh that surrounded his little kingdom.

“I...yes. Fine, thank you.”

“Good to hear it. I’ll make sure not to pass you any unpurified water from now on.” He winked, and Quinn knew it would be alright. He wouldn’t say a word about the truth.

“Um,” said Quinn, blushing. “Just looking to mod my armour. What you got in stock?”

She spent the next twenty minutes haggling with Teagan. For her, it was the principle of being stingy - she had never been one to part easily with her money, a trait Nate had shared. Teagan, however, simply seemed to have a taste for the game, and let her challenge him on every price before firmly putting his foot down when his limit had been reached. By the end of it, both of them were grinning, and even though Quinn left with her pockets lighter than she would have liked, she had enjoyed herself nonetheless.

She made her way to the armour stations, noting Proctor Ingram’s approving look at her as she stalked past, barking orders at the initiates. Quinn unloaded the pile of mods in her arms onto a nearby crate, and glanced at her somewhat battered power armour, which had been left untouched since Danse had departed the Prydwen. It had reminded her too much of him.

Quinn wrinkled her nose and sighed, a sharp twinge in her chest. Danse had been drifting in and out of her thoughts with increasing frequency over the course of the month, her feelings a mixed mess. Although her anger was but a distant memory, new emotions had sprung in its place: shame, worry, and longing. None of her friends knew where he had gone - whatever his mission was, it had clearly not been for the ears of the majority. What if he didn’t come back at all, and the last thing she had said to him had been borne of spite?

The hardest time was at night. In the enclosure of her own mind, her thoughts swayed between Nate, Shaun, and Danse. All were equally unpleasant - memories of her family stung her and made her eyes prick with tears.

When she thought of Danse, it was their conversations that came to mind.

Some of them had been bad. Her rage, her disrespect, and her hurt, directed at a target that would never really fight her back. Maybe that was why she had done it in the first place.

The one conversation that plagued her the most hadn’t really been a conversation at all, but a moment of pure insanity; a catastrophe avoided, only because Danse’s character far outstripped her own.

Sanctuary.

Everything had been a mess - nothing clear, a fog in which could not see or feel or think. Blind rage had delivered her to Shaun’s room. Danse’s persistence had delivered her to his arms.

A haze of pain, and then suddenly, she was _aware._ He had been clutching her, rising from the depths of his nightmares, and in that instant, Quinn had _felt._ It had been an explosion in her chest, clouding everything, until all she could focus on was the man in front of her. Nothing else mattered. Just her. Just him.

Her hands had slid across Danse’s shoulders, exploring him, her vision tunnelled as her eyes had trailed across his face, drinking in every detail. His brown eyes, usually intense and serious, had been wide and confused, their colour obscured in the dark. But despite the uncertainty, Quinn had felt the tremor in his body as she’d moved towards him, hovering on at the edge of a place she could not return from.

His breath had tickled her skin, his eyes flicking briefly to her lips as she’d waited in front of him, a prize ready to be claimed.

But something happened.

A sharp terror had cut through the smog, and in an instant, Quinn had been filled with an unsettling sense of being _there._ Whether it had shown on her face, she didn’t know, but her limbs froze up as her heart hammered away in panic. What was she _doing?_

Still, she hadn’t moved. Afraid to withdraw. Afraid to proceed. It was all too much for her to process, her brain banging against a glass wall while her body went through a series of hollow motions.

Salvation had come in the form of Danse. The second he had moved her away, life had crashed back into her, so overwhelming that everything was a blur after that.

Even thinking about the incident made her stomach crawl with humiliation. Thank God Danse was enough of a gentleman not to bring up such a blatant meltdown on her part. And yet at the same time, Quinn found herself wondering what he really thought about it. If his words back in Goodneighbor were anything to go by, he was...fond of her.

_“I...I didn't know you felt that strongly about our...well, about us.”_

Her cheeks were burning with the memory, and yet at the same time, it was precious to her. A small moment where perhaps they had both been fully honest with each other, even if they hadn’t understood it at the time.

Deacon’s words at Sanctuary had played over and over in her head, hitting closer to home than she ever could have imagined.

_“Quinn, you're going to have to admit it to yourself sooner or later. Maybe then you'll be more honest about why you make the decisions you do.”_

No. She couldn’t do that just yet. She wasn’t ready to accept it. Her love for Nate still burned, but it was like the dying embers of a fading fire, rather than the blaze it had once been. However, until the weight of string and cheap metal around her neck lost its hold on her, moving on was out of the question.

_But it’s happening anyway, isn’t it?_ she thought dully. _I’m losing myself. I’m leaving him behind, trapped and frozen in that vault, while I rebuild and forget._

_I’m a terrible wife._

_I’m..._

A loud bang made her jump so hard, the tip of the screwdriver she had been using slipped, carving a deep scratch in the metal of her armour.

“Sorry!” said Carson, and Quinn turned to see him crouching down, picking up screws and putting them back into a small, metal box while Ingram loomed over him, glowering.

Grinning, Quinn strolled over to him and bent over, smiling sweetly. “And this is why we don’t _run_ on the Prydwen, Carson.”

“Who said I was running?” Carson replied, pouting as he picked up handfuls of screws.

“Well, if you weren’t running, then you’re just fucking clumsy. Got Kapraski on the brain?”

Carson turned his usual dark scarlet, but he smiled all the same as he worked in silence, clearing the last of his mess. Straightening up, he handed the box to Ingram, who gave him one final scowl before stomping away.

“You’ve got oil on your face,” Carson said, pointing.

Quinn rubbed at the spot, but judging from her friend’s grin, all she had succeeded in doing was smearing it everywhere. She let her hand drop, giving up. “So, you and Kapraski. Spill the beans. How are things?”

Carson tried to hide his smile, but it resisted and broke through, wide and beaming. “Good. Really good. I just…” He leaned against Quinn’s power armour, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I don’t think I would have made a move without your help. I mean, Rachel never bothered to encourage me, and Casey…” The smile faltered slightly. “She tried really hard to convince me, but because of everything from our hometown, I just...I thought she was trying to be nice to me. That people would be bothered.”

“And are they?”

“You know they aren’t,” Carson replied, shrugging. “I found out from Tom that there are some Brotherhood chapters that _do_ care about that sort of thing, but they’re more towards the Midwest. I’m...I’m really lucky I ended up here.”

“I don’t know. You did get speared a couple of months ago.”

Carson laughed. “Worth it. Absolutely and utterly _worth it_ to get to where I am now. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

She could tell he meant it. The expression on his face reminded her of her wedding photo, which was tucked away in the depths of her footlocker. Eyes shining with hope, with _plans_ for the future.

Quinn was delighted for him. She gave him her usual, playful punch on the arm, and gestured for him to follow her back to the power armour station. They talked while she worked, her Brotherhood uniform - which Carson had gotten for her a few weeks ago after she had thrown out her whiskey-stained army fatigues - pulled down to her waist, her white undershirt now on show. It clung to her figure in just the right places, and Quinn noticed the occasional pair of eyes wandering up and down her body as she clattered about the tools.

Not that Quinn minded - she had no illusions about the situation. The Prydwen was a confined metal box, the men and women serving on it crammed together with little to no privacy. Had they been stationed at a proper base with the space for the soldiers to blow off steam, she doubted anyone would so much as give her a second glance.

“Anyway, Knight-Captain Cade says I’ll probably be fit for duty in a few days,” Carson said, passing Quinn one of the tools she had laid out on the crate into her outstretched hand. “Looks like the muscles are pretty much healed.”

“That’s great!” said Quinn as she tweaked her power armour helmet. “He’s not told me when I’ll be out yet, but our talks are getting a lot more positive, so it could be soon. When you’re back on duty, do you know whose team you’ll be assigned to yet?”

Carson didn’t answer, but nudged her in the ribs. When she looked up, he pointed down the nearby corridor.

Paladin Danse was walking towards them, glancing from side to side, as if looking for someone.

Quinn took in a sharp breath, her stomach clenching so violently she felt nauseous. From the corner of her eye, she could see Carson smirking at her, and he leaned over slightly to whisper in her ear.

“I’ll leave you two alone, I think.”

_No, wait!_

Her words caught in her throat, and before she could force them out, Carson was gone. He walked past Danse, saluting him as he went. Danse nodded at him, and then turned, his eyes landing on Quinn. All at once, he seemed to stop, eyebrows raising in surprise as he fixed his gaze on her, a slight blush rising in his cheeks.

She felt exposed, suddenly _very_ aware of the clingy white tank top she was wearing. Hoping he wouldn’t get the wrong message, Quinn pulled her uniform into place and zipped it up again, wanting to sink into the floor. This seemed to break the spell, and Danse shook his head, walking over to her, his footsteps sending heavy clunks through the metal walkway.

“Paladin Danse,” she said, saluting him.

Again, he looked surprised at this, but pleasantly so. It was her turn to be surprised when he saluted her back.

“Knight.” He paused, and Quinn noticed how tired he looked.

No, tired wasn’t the word. Danse was a _wreck._ The stubble that had once graced his jaw line had become a full beard, but even that couldn’t hide his rundown appearance. Pale and gaunt, the shadows under his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them before.

Quinn bit her lip, all previous emotions being replaced by a barrage of worry. She wanted to ask if he was alright, if the nightmares had gotten worse, if there was anything she could do to help...but they were surrounded by people. Mentioning it now would be the last thing Danse would want.

“I’ve spoken with Knight-Captain Cade,” said Danse, shifting a little on the spot. “He has given me his report on your progress, and I’m pleased to inform you that you are fit for duty again...that is, unless you think otherwise.”

“Yes,” Quinn said quickly. “I mean, no, I don’t think otherwise. I think I’m fine, too. I…”

Danse nodded. “In that case, I need to speak to you in private. Come with me.”

He set off without another word, leaving a flustered Quinn to trail after him, almost jogging to keep up. They walked past Rachel Marguerie, who was smoking a cigar at the top of a stairwell. She greeted Danse with enthusiasm, which he only half returned. The knight-sergeant frowned, looking confused, and then raised an eyebrow at Quinn. Quinn shrugged, shaking her head, and continued after Danse, heading up to the top of the Prydwen. It was only when they reached a door to the outside that Quinn realised where they were.

“This was where you took me when I needed to listen to my tape,” Quinn said. “All those months ago.”

“The best place on the ship for discretion,” Danse said, nodding. He held the door open for her, and she went outside, greeted by chilling winds that bit her skin and whipped at her hair.

The door shut behind them with a bang. Last time Quinn had been here, she had been admiring the view of the Commonwealth. Now she was entirely distracted by the man standing before her.

He looked nervous, fidgeting a little in the awkward silence between them.

_What the hell is going on?_

“Danse,” Quinn said, shivering in the wind. “I...I’m sorry for what I said last time we spoke. I was...I was lost. Hurting. And I took it out on you. Your work is important, I know that, but the idea of you not being here with me was...difficult. I’m sorry for all of it.”

“I lied to you.”

Quinn blinked. That was not the answer she had been expecting. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather, and she stared at him, her mouth hanging open. “You...you _lied_ to me? But why?”

“I never had a mission to complete in the Commonwealth. I left of my own accord, with good reason.”

“Good reason?” she repeated, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “And what good reason was that, that you couldn’t just tell me the truth in the first place?”

His expression was unreadable. Quinn wasn’t sure whether he was simply so exhausted he could barely function, or if he was steeling himself for the conversation ahead, but Danse looked almost devoid of life.

“When we visited...when we went into Vault 111, you...you said something.” He paused, frowning. “Do you remember what happened in there?”

Now Quinn was definitely confused. What the hell did the vault have to do with any of this? “No, not really. I remember...I remember the rings. I remember I had some sort of fit in there. And I remember leaving. The rest is a blur.”

“In the cryo area...you said that you hated the idea of leaving your husband in there, but that you couldn’t bury him unless it was done properly.”

He hesitated again, just long enough for his words to sink in, and Quinn felt herself grasp at the railings of the ship to steady herself. Now that had he mentioned it, the memory was coming back. The world seemed to tunnel itself, until only Danse existed in front of her. Was he saying what she _thought_ he was saying?

“I’ve been back to Sanctuary,” Danse said, looking anxious. “Spoke with the others. Your friends. Did our research. Planned what we could. Improvised the rest. And...and if you still want it...”

_“A funeral?”_ Quinn breathed.

Danse nodded. “Your husband’s funeral.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to release this early because I’m having a god awful time right now, and people reading my stuff gives me a lil’ bit of happiness. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> As a side note, the kids mixing up Washington D.C. and Washington state was an actual thing I did the other week on tumblr. As a Brit with zero knowledge of American geography, I thought Maxson was originally from the west, in Washington State.
> 
> Much shouting about Sealand followed:
> 
> http://quinzelade.tumblr.com/post/141041691310/maxson-is-the-elder-of-the-east-coast-brotherhood


	25. Forms of Address

He had to tell her.

The moment wasn’t right, but Danse was starting to realise it never would be. If he didn’t say something to Quinn now, he doubted he’d pluck up the courage again. Danse paused, struggling how best to phrase it, before simply blurting out, “I’m leaving the Prydwen again tomorrow.”

“What?” Quinn’s tone was blunt and unguarded. Once again, he had proven his sheer incompetence with delicate situations, but what was said could not be taken back.

Danse decided to soldier on. “I have another assignment elsewhere in the Commonwealth. I leave first thing in the morning.”

Quinn’s reaction wasn’t as bad as he had expected, but it was still unpleasant. Her anger radiated so strongly, he could feel it without looking at her. Danse didn’t _want_ to look at her. He was afraid he might relent if he did.

“I see. Throw me to the wolves and then abandon me when I need friends the most.”

Now _that_ was unfair. Despite himself, he rose to his feet, fixing her with a solid glare. “That is not-”

“Stop.” She held up a hand, her shoulders rising and falling with her heavy breathing, and he felt his insides churn as she met his eye, her own _blazing._ “You have your duty. I understand. It would be wrong of me to berate you for something you can’t change. Goodnight, sir.”

Her clinical address stung, but before he could answer, she had wrenched open the door and left, closing it behind her with a curt click. In all honesty, he was glad to see the back of her. Not because he wanted her to go, but because he had come uncomfortably close to telling her the real reason he was leaving.

Her husband’s funeral. Danse had thought long and hard about whether or not to tell Quinn before he approached the others in Sanctuary. Ultimately, he had decided no. There was no guarantee that it could be organised successfully at all, even with the help of Quinn’s civilian friends. It would have been cruel to bring her hopes up and then promptly shatter them. Not only that, but if Quinn knew, there wouldn’t be a chance she would stay behind.

And of course, none of this included the simple fact that Quinn had enough on her plate already. No, better for her to be angry at him than put her through a hell built on shaky foundations.

Sighing, Danse removed his uniform hood and tossed it onto his bed, feeling agitated. He knew he should rest before the trip tomorrow, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he crossed over to his desk, tugging open one of the drawers and removing the book he had stashed there. Turning around, his eyes fell on his armour, before he remembered what else lurked in the metal suit.

_Of course…_

Danse strode over and opened a compartment on the leg, lifting out a folded mess of blue and yellow fabric: Quinn’s vault suit. The opportunity to take it had presented itself almost as soon as they had separated on the Prydwen; she had gone off with Knight Carson, leaving her power armour alone. No one had questioned him quickly rooting through its compartments, locating the vault suit, and storing it away in his own armour.

Danse put the book in the compartment that the suit had once resided in and closed it with a click, before diverting his attention back to the suit. The fabric flowed between his hands, dirty and bloody. Danse winced. It would need a good clean when he finished, that was for certain. He wandered over to the lockers on the back wall, opening the nearest one and locating a small, compact sewing kit, before returning to his desk. Sliding aside the pistol he had been tinkering with the last time he had been on the ship, he adjusted the light and then opened up the kit to select a needle.

Sewing was the sort of repetitive, meticulous work that Danse found relaxing; this time, however, he was too focused to settle. Normally, in the privacy of his quarters, he would hum tunelessly while he worked, but he felt so on edge, all he could concentrate on was the next stitch...and the next one...and the next…

He was just knotting the final stitch to stop it all from coming loose again, when there was a knock on his door. The needle stabbed into his hand, and Danse hissed with pain, pulling it out and sucking at his bleeding finger.

Wondering who wanted him _now,_ Danse stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. The weathered face of Rachel Marguerie greeted him at the threshold.

“You look like shit, sir,” she said, stepping in without invitation. “Any particular reason you’ve shut yourself away? Normally you’re stomping around with the rest of us, looking for things to do.”

Danse closed the door, frowning at her in annoyance. As much as he respected her as a soldier, he’d never approved of her disregard of rank and code. “I needed to get some rest before tomorrow. I’m heading back out again.”

“Rest, _sure,”_ she said sarcastically, giving a little nod towards the vault suit. “I wasn’t aware rest meant sewing for the vault dweller.”

“She never asked me to,” he said quickly, realising he was making himself sound defensive.

“Oh, I figured as much.” Marguerie grinned at him. “So, made a new friend? Or something more?”

“Friends.” His scowl deepened. Whatever she was insinuating, he didn’t like it. “Why are you here, Marguerie?”

“Oh, don’t pull faces at me like that. I’m doing what I always do: making sure you actually take some time to yourself.” She pulled out her zip lighter and two cigars, tossing him one.

“I don’t…”

“Sir, I’ve seen you work your way through an entire carton of cigarettes in record time. Same with vodka.” Marguerie looked pointedly at the bin full of empty bottles. “It’s a good stress reliever, and as I've already said, you look like-”

“Fine,” Danse interrupted, sighing. “But not in here. I don’t want my quarters stinking of smoke.”

Marguerie’s grin widened. “Good man.”

Five minutes later, he found himself on the outside deck of the Prydwen, staring out towards Fort Strong as he puffed on a cigar. He’d coughed at first, Marguerie’s laughter filling his ears, but eventually he’d reaccustomed to it, the sensation of heat spreading through his throat and chest as familiar as the warmth of a laser rifle in his hands.

The knight-sergeant leaned on the railings as she blew out a thick stream of smoke, staring into the distance with a blank expression on her face.

“Why do you do this, Marguerie?” Danse said suddenly. “Why do you bother? We’ve butted heads more times than I care to count.”

“Someone’s in a strange mood today.” She dragged on her cigar, letting the smoke drift out of her mouth as she talked. “Yeah, we don’t always see eye to eye. But I remember what you did for me with George...with…”

“I know.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, her mouth thin and tight. “And the same goes with Cutler, doesn’t it?”

Danse hesitated and then gave a slow nod. Marguerie had been there, ready to do what was _right._

“We were on the same team for years,” she went on. “Some of the most harrowing experiences of my life were at your side. I don’t know if that makes us friends, or acquaintances, or somewhere in-between, but we’ve had each other’s backs when it mattered most. I think that warrants sharing a smoke together every now and then, don’t you?”

Danse shrugged, but then stepped forward, leaning on the railing next to Marguerie and drawing deeply on the cigar. She smiled at him and did the same, the two of them basking in the silence of the wasteland evening.

“So that vault suit…” Rachel said, turning to him and grinning slightly.

“What about it?” He coughed a little, avoiding her eye.

“Does she even know you have it?”

“No.”

Marguerie raised an eyebrow. “Do you like her?”

Danse didn’t answer, and her grin widened.

“Well, _I_ like her. She gives me the impression that she doesn’t take any shit.”

“No,” said Danse. “She prefers to give it to everyone else.”

Marguerie laughed, and after a second, Danse joined in. He finished his cigar and flicked it over the side of the ship, watching it tumble in the air before it disappeared out of sight. Marguerie took one last, deep drag, and then stubbed her own out before throwing it away, releasing a long jet of smoke from her nose.

An idea occurred to him.

“Marguerie,” he said, but then hesitated. No...that was too much to ask of her. Far too much. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter-”

“Spit it out, sir.” Marguerie folded her arms, giving him a stubborn look.

“I might be stepping over my boundaries, and stop me if I am, but…” He tentatively explained the bare bones of Quinn’s situation: the loss of her son and her husband, once again fuelling the lie that they were both dead. “She’s struggling right now, but I think...well…”

“You want me to talk to her about my experiences, right?” Marguerie replied, saving him from his fumbling. “Help her by sharing?”

Danse nodded, noting the hard look on her face. He was already regretting mentioning it to her. “Forget it. It was wrong of me to even bring this up, let alone ask-”

“I’ll do it.”

“I...what?” He stared at her, momentarily taken aback.

 _“I’ll do it._ God knows I needed someone to talk to when…” Marguerie swallowed, briefly shutting her eyes, and then forced them open again. They burned with determination. “Maybe talking will do me some good, too.” She glanced around the deck and then sighed. “Come on. Let’s head back in. I’m freezing.”

They walked back towards the interior of the ship, Marguerie shivering slightly as Danse led the way. He wasn’t convinced this was entirely because of the cold, but decided to let her have her act. God knows he depended on his own mask these days.

As they reached the door, Danse stopped, turning to her, and gave her a small smile.

“Rachel...thank you.”

* * *

“Alright, tin can. What’s the plan?”

All eyes were on Danse. In any other situation, the attention would be as normal as walking, but in any _other_ situation, he’d have an official rank to solidify his leadership. Amongst this ragtag band of civilians, ghouls, and synths, his authority only went as far as they allowed.

Danse hesitated.

“You do _have_ a plan, don't you?” Preston asked, frowning.

 _Get a hold of yourself,_ Danse thought, before clearing his throat. “Yes, I do.”

He half expected a sarcastic remark from the ghoul or the synth, but they waited in silence for him to continue. Their lack of insubordination was unsettling.

“The Brotherhood had _this_ in its archives.” He laid down a thick book onto the table, sporting a peeling cover that may have once been glossy, but was now scratched and scuffed into a dull sheen. “It describes many of the military practices from before the war, including funerals.”

Danse opened it carefully, pawing the pages as he searched for the right section, and then pointed, reading out the details of the funeral traditions. The whole thing looked extremely complicated, with flag folding, gun salutes, and music...and that was before they even touched the added problem of religious preferences. Nick had said that Quinn had told him once that Nate had been a ‘non-practicing Catholic.’ Danse wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but he did know the word ‘Catholic’ would mean they’d need a pre-war religious tome called a ‘Bible.’

“We will be able to complete this mission more efficiently if we split up and search for each component independently.” Danse glanced up at Sturges. “As we discussed earlier, you’re more than capable of building a coffin.”

“I already took some estimated measurements and drew up the plans,” said Sturges. “You just leave it to me.”

“Good.” Danse directed his gaze towards Piper, who fixed him with a determined look. “And you said there’s a preacher in Diamond City who could lead the ceremony?”

“Yeah,” said Piper. “He’s a good man - believes in accommodating all kinds of faith. If we can find him that ‘ _cathalit’_ Bible book-”

 _“Catholic,”_ interjected Nick.

“Catholic,” Piper corrected. “If we find that, I think he’ll help us. I mean, he’d help us anyway because he’s nice, but…”

“We can probably find a Bible in Boston library,” Nick said. “I say I go and look for one there and then meet Piper in Diamond City to escort the preacher back here. Commonwealth is a dangerous place for a man like him.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Preston said. “That place is crawling with super mutants.”

 _“Was_ crawling with super mutants.” Hancock gave Preston a sly grin. “Quinn and I cleared the place out a few months ago for dear old Daisy.”

“Yeah, but who knows what’s in there now?” Piper said, shaking her head. “If there are super mutants, it should be three of us going.”

Danse frowned. The idea of two civilians going up against super mutants bothered him, and the fact they’d be relying on a _synth_ if something went wrong.... What happened if they were hurt? Perhaps he should have asked some of his fellow soldiers to help him with this instead.

“Paladin Danse?” said Piper. She was looking at him carefully, her mouth twisting into something that looked halfway between amusement and exasperation.

“Yes?” he replied, her respectful tone catching him off guard.

“You don’t need to worry about us. _And don’t deny it._ I can see it in your face,” she said as he opened his mouth to argue. “We wastelanders are hardier than you’d think. We know how to handle ourselves in a fight.”

Danse paused and then nodded. “Alright.”

Piper smiled at him.

“Which just leaves the flag and the music,” said Hancock, cutting through the moment like a knife.

“I...I haven't thought of a way to locate an intact flag,” Danse admitted, flushing slightly. “All the military bases I've been through during my patrols have fallen into great disrepair.”

He was greeted by a series of blank looks and his heart sank. A damaged flag would _suffice,_ but he had never been the type of person to settle for ‘sufficient.’ A job had to be done right or not at all.

“I think I know just the place,” Hancock said suddenly, folding his arms as his brow furrowed with concentration.

Danse stared at the shabby ghoul. His very appearance disgusted him, and he found himself doubting that such an unkempt creature would know what the word ‘pristine’ even meant, let alone what something pristine would look like. His distrust must have shown, though, because the ghoul rolled his eyes.

“Not far from Goodneighbor, there’s a placed called the Cabot House,” said Hancock as he gave Danse an ugly look. “Went there with Quinn, helped the family with a little...personal problem they were having.”

“Personal problem?” asked Piper.

“Yeah, the old man of the house had an ancient artifact glued to his head and could kill people with his mind, so they shut him away in an old asylum for four-hundred years, while using his blood to achieve eternal life.”

A ringing silence greeted this statement.

Hancock grinned sheepishly. “I...may have been high at the time.”

“What a surprise,” snapped Danse, but before Hancock could retort, the synth cleared his throat loudly and pointedly.

“Alright, alright,” Hancock muttered, still glaring at Danse. “Point is, whatever _actually_ happened, we did something right, because the family gave us the run of their house afterwards. Everything inside looks like it’s not been touched since the war. If there’s anywhere we can find a clean flag, it’s there.”

Danse nodded. “I’ll head over there then and collect it.”

Hancock frowned. “You really think they’ll just let a stranger go into their home and take their things? Not to mention you’re _Brotherhood._ This one’s mine; I’ll get it.”

“I see. So you’ll take the flag and somehow get it across Boston Ruins - an area that’s practically a war zone - without damaging it in the slightest?” Danse shook his head. “No. Impossible. At the very least, I can put it in my armour where it will be _safe.”_

“Tell you what, tin can: give me your fancy power armour and I’ll bring it back in one piece _for you.”_

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let you near my equipment, you filthy-”

“Can the two of you not go five damn minutes without arguing?” Piper cut in sharply, pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it in a jerky, agitated manner. “We’re supposed to be talking about Quinn here, not your egos.”

Both Danse and Hancock went quiet, avoiding each other’s eyes and the irritated glares of everyone else. A slow awkwardness swept over the gathering as Piper puffed away, clouding Danse’s senses with the thick, acrid smoke.

Preston stood with his arms folded, twisting his mouth from side to side as the smoke cloud grew, before looking up with an uncertain expression on his face. “Why don’t you go together?”

“No,” said Danse at once, and he was surprised to find that a chorus of loud disapproval joined with his own - directed not at him, but at Preston.

“That is _asking_ for trouble,” said Nick, shaking his head. “They’d both kill each other before the flag got anywhere near Sanctuary.”

Preston gave a little shrug, but Danse’s attention was suddenly drawn to the ghoul. Unlike the synth and Piper, he had not argued against Preston’s suggestion, but was instead stood still, a little scowl on his face as he scratched his chin in contemplation.

“Hancock, please don’t say you’re _considering_ this?” Piper groaned, rubbing her forehead in frustration.

“Do I look fucking happy about it?” snapped Hancock, and he let his gaze linger on Danse for a moment before continuing. “But I’m not seeing any other way around the problem.”

 _“No,”_ Danse said again, more forcefully this time.

“You got a better idea, tin can? Because I’d _love_ to hear it. Seriously. A road trip with you sounds like hell.”

Danse gritted his teeth, but didn’t answer. He _couldn’t_ answer. What else was there to do? Risk the flag being damaged or raid someone’s home and steal it? Both were extremely undesirable; almost as undesirable as using a ruined flag. He sighed heavily.

 A job had to be done right or not at all.

“Fine.” Danse’s voice was like a whip crack, making Piper jump. “Ghoul, you’re with me until we get the flag. After that, I don’t care what you do.” He turned to the others, ignoring their glares at his tone. “Piper, Preston, and…”

His eyes drifted over to the synth as his voice trailed off, before he cleared his throat and continued. “Boston Library for the book. If things get too heated, retreat and return to Sanctuary. We can regroup and attack in full force. No point adding another body to this funeral.”

Their expressions changed from annoyance to shock, and Danse scolded himself for forgetting that civilians tended to not be so cold over death.

“Don’t be so damn cheerful about it,” Piper muttered into her cigarette.

Danse ignored her, leaning over and shutting the book he had taken from the Brotherhood archives, trying not to think that soon he was going to be stuck on the road with a _ghoul._ If anyone saw him with that thing…

“The only problem now is numbers,” he said, trying to push out images of exile, the ghoul laughing as he was stripped of his rank and power armour. “We need a set amount of people to do this successfully.”

“Leave that to me,” Preston said with a nod. “I'll get the people we need.”

“Settlers?”

“No, the Minutemen.”

Danse made a low grumbling noise. The Minutemen were, at best, a disorganised rabble with guns and impractical uniforms. But it would be selfish of him to pull his brothers and sisters from his duties to assist, and was not something he was prepared to do, even for Quinn.

“Fine. Are they trained for military salutes?”

Preston shook his head. “No. I was hoping you would be able to show them.”

Danse nodded. “Nothing I haven't done before. Are they in the area?”

“I can send a message to the Castle and have them sent to us.”

“Excellent. That solves that problem.” Danse looked over towards the bridge that led out of Sanctuary. “I need to go speak with Quinn’s robot over at Red Rocket. I have a job for him.”

“Codsworth?” Nick asked, frowning. “Why do you need him?”

* * *

“Music, sir?”

Codsworth bobbed up and down in front of Danse, swivelling on the spot as he looked from Danse to Hancock. Danse quickly explained the pre-war tradition of music at funerals.

“The manual mentions something called _‘Taps.’_ Do you know what that is?” Danse paused, wondering if he was simply wasting his time. It was just a robot after all.

“Ah, yes, sir, I believe I can help with that! Follow me!” The robot floated past him, and Danse blinked, perplexed.

“What are you waiting for?” Hancock asked, shrugging. “Let’s see what he’s got to offer.”

The two of them trailed after the Mr. Handy as it drifted merrily over to Sanctuary, humming a cheerful little tune as he went. Preston raised an eyebrow as they made their way back into the settlement, an odd and mismatched trio.

Codsworth floated inside Quinn’s old house, and Danse felt his stomach flip. The last time he had been in there, Quinn had been in his arms. Danse’s face grew red at the memory and he quickly stomped inside so that Hancock wouldn’t see.

Still humming to itself, Codsworth bobbed about the room, and then stopped in the corner. If he - _no, it_ \- had a mouth, Danse was sure it would be smiling.

“Here, sir! Just under the carpet.”

Hancock stepped forward and pulled back the fraying carpet, revealing a safe built into the floor. He fiddled with it, and then produced a screwdriver and a bobby pin from his pocket.

“Locked,” he muttered. “My ‘picking skills ain’t as good as Cait’s, but…” The ghoul bent over the safe and began to work on it, occasionally cursing as he fumbled with the lock.

Several bobby pins and a lot of swearing later, and they were still no further in opening the safe. However, just Danse was just about to tell him to give up, there was a click and the metal door opened.

“Ha!” cried Hancock in triumph, and he reached in, pulling out a collection of holotapes. “Jackpot.” He set aside the tapes and peered inside the safe, frowning, and then let out a low whistle as he reached in again, removing something completely different. “Look at this.”

In the ghoul’s hands was a dirty glass bottle, the worn label stained brown and peeling at the edges. Despite the wear and tear, the word _‘Bowmore’_ written in bold, black letters could still clearly be read.

Danse’s eyes widened, and he looked at Codsworth quizzically. “Why is that in there?”

“Ah, well, sir,” said Codsworth, suddenly sounding mildly embarrassed. “A humorous story behind that one. A most _humorous_ story indeed.” The robot gave a blatantly forced laugh which trailed off into a grumbled sigh.

Both Hancock and Danse stared at Codsworth, bemused, and after a long silence, he relented.

“Oh, _very well.”_ Codsworth bobbed faster on the spot. “When I was first purchased by Mister Nate and Miss Quinn, Miss Quinn was responsible with setting me up, and in her, ah, infinite wisdom...she...she programmed a colourful form of address for Mister Nate, in vengeance for-”

“What did you have to call him?” Hancock cut across, grinning from ear to ear as Danse frowned.

There was a pause.

“...Mister Fuckface,” said Codsworth, with an air of eternal suffering.

Hancock exploded with laughter, his body shaking so hard he had to lean against the nearby wall to stop himself from falling over. Danse rolled his eyes. What an utterly _childish_ thing to…

Despite himself, he felt his lips twitch into a small smile. Thankfully, Hancock was laughing too hard to notice, and by the time he had calmed down, Danse had managed to gain control of himself again.

“I think Quinn will appreciate the find,” said Danse with a nod.

Hancock placed the items back in the safe, and then picked up the tapes, showing them to Codsworth. “So which one of these is the one we need?” He turned them over in his hands and then held one up, which was marked _‘E.J.: At Last.’_ “What’s this one, Cods?”

Codsworth spluttered, ruffled at his new nickname, but then quickly returned to his dignified manner. “According to Miss Quinn, they played it at their wedding for their first dance. Or as Mister Nate liked to joke, ‘their second.’”

“Their second?” asked Danse.

“I don’t know, sir. The joke was never explained to me.” Codsworth spun around on the spot, and a little hatch popped open in his back for the holotape. “Would you care to listen?”

Hancock set the tapes down on the kitchen unit and picked up the one marked _‘E.J.’,_ placing it in the port and closing it with a click. There was a whirring sound as it loaded, and suddenly the room was filled with music.

_“At last, my love has come along.”_

Danse felt himself go cold. He understood Nate’s joke.

Hancock waved a hand in front of his face. “Hey, tin can? What’s up?”

“I…” Danse swallowed, his mouth dry.

_“My lonely days are over, and life is like a song…”_

“Turn it off,” he said, and Codsworth obliged, the tape port popping open. Danse felt uncomfortable, like he had intruded on a private and intimate part of Quinn’s life. The first dance she had ever had with her husband, the night they had met in that bar. He could still recall the faraway look in Quinn’s eyes when she’d told the story.

_“By 3am, I had my arms wrapped around his neck, dancing to Etta James…”_

It was this song. It _had_ to be this song. There was no other reason for Nate to make such a comment.

Hancock reached over and took the tape out, throwing Danse a confused look. He opened his mouth, his black eyes narrowing, and then seemed to reconsider, putting the tape on the kitchen unit again as he said, “I guess you’re not an Etta James fan…”

Danse ignored him and turned back to Codsworth. “Which one is the _Taps_ tape?”

“This one, sir.” Codsworth pointed to a tape at the edge of the pile. It stood out from the rest, in that while the others were marked in various colours of pen and in an untidy scrawl, the label was written in black, neat ink that read: _‘Crofts: In Memory.’_

“What’s a Crofts?” asked Hancock, picking it up and squinting at the label.

“Miss Quinn once told me Mister Nate played it not long before Master Shaun's first birthday, for an anniversary of sort. His old friend, Sergeant Crofts. She...she died on the battlefield. And Mister Nate blamed himself.”

Danse’s stomach gave a sharp, painful jolt, and he winced, doing his best to keep his face blank. “Play it.”

“A ‘please’ wouldn’t hurt,” Hancock grumbled, but he still put the tape into the port, with a click and a whir. There was a slight pause, and then it began.

A single, haunting bugle call sounded out from the recording, clear and sharp, but sombre too. The player reached for the notes with grace and poise, emotion flooding the simple tune in a way Danse had never heard in any other song. He could see the ancient battlefield from centuries past, stretching far beyond the last Great War of America, the dirt and sand stained with the blood of the fallen.

Shivers raced down his spine as the lone bugle went on and on, slowly dancing with grief as each aching note rang out in turn.

When it was over, Danse did not want to break the silence.

“Well shit,” said Hancock, apparently not as taken by the beauty of the music as he was. “Can’t get any more traditional than that.”

Danse scowled, irritated at the ruined moment. “If you do that on the day-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hancock said, taking the tape out of Codsworth and placing it with the others. “Unlike some people I could name, I know when to shut my damn mouth.”

“Practice it now, then,” Danse shot back.

“Christ, what’s pissed you off?”

“Nothing.” Danse paused. No, it was troubling him too much to keep quiet about it. Even sharing it with the ghoul was better than nothing. He shifted on the spot. “The song...it’s traditional, but...is it the right choice?

Hancock shrugged. “It’s a funeral. She’s going to be heartbroken whatever we pick. Might as well make it a song that meant something to her husband.”

This was true. But it was the idea of choosing the music _for_ her made him uncomfortable. He voiced this, and to Danse’s surprise, Hancock nodded.

“Yeah, I see what you mean. Well, if she wants to go ahead with this when she gets here, we’ll ask her and let her choose, alright?”

“Agreed.”

Another awkward silence.

Hancock put the tapes back in the safe and closed it, and then sighed, pulling a face at Danse. “Right. Come on. Let’s get this little road trip done with.”

“The sooner, the better,” said Danse.

Hancock laughed. “You got that right, crew cut.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to waiting4morning for their invaluable beta help, as always. I want to add they were busy this weekend, but made a real effort to help me get this out today.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who sent reviews and nice messages to me to cheer me up. Love you all. :)


	26. Olde Towne Road Trip

Gunfire rained down on Danse and Hancock as they sprinted through the ruins of Concord, bullets pinging off walls, sending brick dust spraying all over them. Just as Danse raised a hand to wipe the grit from his visor, there was a clunk and a deep _crack_. His head snapped to the side, and the display function in his helmet went black.

Groping blindly and trying to ignore the stabbing pains in his neck, he stumbled into what he sincerely hoped was cover, and pulled the helmet off, inspecting the damage. There was a large bullet hole in the thickest section of the metal plating, right next to the visor. It crackled and hissed, sparks flying out of the split metal. The bullet must have hit the circuitry for the visor - a shot in a million, and a raider with a scrap yard combat rifle had accidentally pulled it off.

With a noise of disgust, Danse launched the helmet over the cover, and watched with an edge of petty satisfaction as it hit one of the raiders in the head, knocking him out cold.

Hancock spat out a mouthful of dirt and gave him a wolfish grin. “Party’s getting good now, huh?”

Danse didn’t reply. The ghoul revelled in chaos, purposefully aggravating the raiders they encountered so that they’d be forced into a fight. When Danse had challenged him, the ghoul had made an excuse about ‘putting down dogs’ and then ran off into the fray. Part of Danse would have gladly left Hancock to his fate, rather than risking his own personal safety to protect him, but something was stopping him.

_The flag,_ he told himself firmly. _You need him to get the flag._

Not that Hancock seemed to require his help dealing with the scum. He had dispatched all of them with frightening efficiency...until now. The raider with the rocket launcher had taken them both by surprise.

“Move left and try to flank them,” barked Danse. “I’ll stay here and draw their fire.”

“Or…” Hancock leaned over and picked up a half full bottle of alcohol from a broken bookshelf, pulling the lid off.

“This is not the time!” bellowed Danse over the gunfire, filled with utter disbelief. Did the ghoul’s addictions know no bounds?

“Keep your armour on,” Hancock yelled back, rolling his eyes as he shoved the bottle into Danse’s hands.

Danse felt his stomach clench as the familiar smell of alcohol hit him, but gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it as he watched Hancock grab a nearby skeleton and tear a strip of fabric off the tattered remains of its clothes.

“Thank you,” the ghoul said sweetly, snatching the bottle back off Danse. Danse let out breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and frowned as Hancock stuffed the fabric inside the open bottle, before pulling out a lighter from his pocket.

Hancock grinned as a flame jumped to light, and held it under the rag, the material quickly catching fire. Without another word, he stood and threw the bottle, and Danse’s mouth fell open as it soared across the battlefield, hitting the rocket launcher wielding raider square in the chest.

The raider screamed as the blaze consumed him, and in his panic, he dropped his weapon. Whether a weapon malfunction had occurred, Danse didn’t know, but the rocket launcher fired the second it hit the floor, and the following explosion sent body parts flying in every direction.

Hancock cackled and picked up his shotgun. “Come on, tin can. Level playing field now!”

The ghoul leapt to his feet and ran back into the fight before Danse could collect his bearings. Shaking his head, he tried to refocus, and dashed after him.

Yes, Hancock loved chaos. It was clear in his yells and jeers as he fought his way through the masses, alternating between his gun and his knife. Danse stayed back, firing in controlled, short bursts, making sure to keep his exposed head protected as best he could. More than once, the ghoul came close to a fatal hit, before pulling through at the last moment. Danse knew he had travelled with Quinn before he had met her at the police station, and he wondered if Hancock was responsible for her reckless attitude.

_No_ , Danse decided. _He may have encouraged it, but she’s always been an inferno._

Together they made short work of the remaining raiders, and when Danse stepped out from his cover and walked towards the ghoul, Hancock was panting from the effort, his ravaged skin peppered with blood.

“Good fight,” said Hancock, wheezing slightly. “Nice not to be cooped up in Goodneighbor or Sanctuary.”

There was a noise, and a raider leapt out from behind an old dumpster, slashing out with the machete in her hand. Hancock whirled around in surprise, but before the blade made contact with him, Danse had raised his rifle and pulled the trigger.

A jet of red streaked across the open area, hitting the raider in the gut. There was a shriek, and she dropped her machete with a clatter as she stumbled back and tripped over a piece of rubble. The raider hit the ground with a bump hard enough to knock the wind out of her, but she barely seemed to notice, her hands scrabbling at the oozing burn in her midriff.

Hancock stared down at the dying raider behind him for a moment, and then turned back to Danse, his expression one of utter shock. “Did you just...did you just save my life?”

Danse didn’t reply, but stomped over to the raider and shot her in the head. He glanced up at Hancock. “Let’s move out. _Without_ getting into another fight, if you can help yourself.”

“Whoa, whoa, no,” said Hancock, running after Danse as he started to walk away. “No, hang on, tin can, I’m gonna need a lil’ help here. What just happened?”

“I killed a raider. Surely you aren’t too high to recognise that?”

“Yeah, funny. I’m a junkie. I know.” Hancock moved in front of Danse, forcing him to stop. “You just saved my life. A _ghoul’s_ life. You. Mr. Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel. Saved _me.”_

“I’m failing to see your point.”

“Oh come on.” Hancock scowled. “I know you’re Brotherhood, but you’re not _that_ damn obtuse. You and the rest of your little organisation don’t like ghouls. You wouldn’t help us even if we were dying right in front of you. I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t for Quinn, you’d have found a way to kill me a long time ago. Same with Valentine.”

Danse felt annoyance flare up inside of him. The ghoul was right about the synth of course, but did he really think that he’d just kill ghouls for no reason? Danse said as much, not bothering to hide his anger, and Hancock pulled a face.

“Your Brotherhood doesn’t have a good track record with deciding which ghouls are feral, and which ghouls aren’t,” he snapped, poking Danse in his steel-plated chest. “And for that matter, some people just don’t care at all. Diamond City didn’t when it murdered its population of ghouls, back when I was still human.”

It was Danse’s turn to be surprised. “Diamond City killed its ghoul population?”

“Yeah.” Hancock stepped back, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a shaking hand. “They leave _that one_ out of the visitors’ tour guide, but that’s exactly what happened. Soon as McDonough got into power, a lot of people died. Those that managed to escape...well. I tried to help them, but one by one, they just disappeared.”

Frowning, Danse considered the ghoul. It was hard to tell if he was lying - Danse had never been good at reading the damaged faces of ghouls - but the tremors in his hands suggested he was not. Shaking his head, Danse said, “Killing civilians...that’s not right.”

“And that brings me back to my main point,” Hancock said, blowing smoke out of his nose cavity. “You. Saving me. You’re Brotherhood to the point of fanaticism. So why does killing non-ferals bother you?”

“Feral ghouls are the enemy.”

“You’re still hostile to non-ferals, though.”

“Because at any point, you can become a feral. That’s not a risk I’m prepared to ignore.” Danse’s scowl softened. “On the other hand, while you disgust me, it wouldn’t be right to let you die.”

Hancock frowned and dragged on his cigarette, fixing Danse with a stern look. “I don’t know what to make of you, tin can. I suppose the best compliment I can give is you’re not as much of a fucking asshole as I thought. But only slightly less.”

“Be content in the knowledge that the feeling is mutual.”

To his surprise, Hancock laughed.

“Long as I know you’re not planning on shooting me in the back anytime soon,” Hancock said, jamming the cigarette between his teeth and picking up his shotgun, “I can live with that. Come on.”

* * *

By the time they had reached the outskirts of Boston, the sun was setting. It shouldn’t have taken so long to make the trek, but continuous interruptions from raiders, as well as a particularly nasty encounter with a yao guai mother and her two cubs, had slowed them down. Hancock had managed to stem the bleeding on his arm by the time they had set up camp, and didn’t argue when Danse said he would take first watch.

_First watch._

The idea was laughable. There would be no other watch tonight but his. Danse flicked his eyes over to the sleeping ghoul in the corner, his coat thrown haphazardly over himself, arms and legs splayed out in a wide arc. His battered hat was next to him, and Danse thought the ghoul looked oddly small without it.

_How does he function with the amount of intoxicants he pushes through his body?_

Danse suspected there was rarely a moment that the ghoul wasn’t high on something, and yet he seemed to function relatively well regardless. It was a state that could not last - Danse had seen the sorry tale far too many times in the Brotherhood and in Rivet City, too. Men and women who looked to chemicals to cope, before losing control of their habits. There had been a time where he had drifted uncomfortably near to that same brink.

Looking back towards the ghoul, Danse felt a sense of unease crept over him.

_How close to the edge is he? How close to the edge was I?_

Twisting his mouth to the side, Danse refocused his gaze on the deep dark of the ruins. This was stupid. He was nothing like the ghoul. He’d had the strength to stop himself and move on with his life. He was completely _fine._

The stabbing pains in his head were getting worse, his heavy eyelids protesting as he fought against their drooping. When had been the last time he had slept?

_I can’t answer the question,_ Danse thought to himself. _Why am I avoiding it so much? Because of Cutler, or…?_

No. It was because he didn’t trust the ghoul. That was all. And yet still, the images of the church in the Glowing Sea surfaced, a nightmare where Cutler had taken on the form of another, where they were decidedly _dead._ His fault again. Always his fault.

Danse groaned and pressed his palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. A mutated Cutler flashed across his vision, and he snapped them open again, heart racing.

The hours trudged by, the tiredness chipping away at his resolve as he stood stock still, staring out into the nothing. The ghoul was right there. All he had to do was wake him, and sleep would be his.

Hancock gave a loud snore and turned over, mumbling something about molerats as his jacket slipped down off his shoulders. He looked frail in the dim lighting, and Danse couldn’t help but wonder what horrors he had seen when Diamond City had purged its ghouls. It explained his almost idealistic views of freedom and goodness, and although Danse still thought it was naive, he could understand it, at least. There were worse ideologies to be aligned to.

Eventually, the sun hit the depths of the city, filtering through the boards and into the shelter they had taken refuge in. When the light landed on Hancock’s face, he groaned and opened his bleary eyes.

“My turn for watch?” he mumbled, squinting at the paladin.

“No, said Danse briskly. “Time for you to get up.”

“To get up?” Hancock sat up, letting his coat fall onto his lap, and gave Danse an odd look. “You were on watch the whole night?”

“Affirmative.”

“But…” the ghoul paused, scratching his head. “Are you going to sleep now?”

“Negative. We have a job to do.” Danse turned away moving across to the exit of the shelter and peering out, checking for hostiles.

“Come on, man, you can’t do this on no sleep.”

“I can and I will.” Danse’s temper was quickly fraying. “I don’t trust a ghoul to watch my back while I’m unconscious.”

“Oh for the love of…” Hancock shook his head and stood, pulling his jacket on and then ramming his hat back on his head irritably. “I should have known yesterday’s speech was too good to be true.” He stalked past Danse, muttering, _“Jackass,”_ under his breath as he went.

Danse followed without comment, letting Hancock lead the way through the city. The usual raiders that haunted the ruins were conspicuously absent, and only a brief encounter with a pack of feral ghouls hindered their progress. Before long, they were at the door of the Cabot house.

Aside from the intercom and the sentry bot stationed outside, Danse saw nothing spectacular about the building. Hancock sauntered over, pressing the button and grinning as a voice crackled out from it.

“What do you want, Hancock?”

“Just making a house call to my dear friends,” said Hancock, examining his fingers nonchalantly. “Quinn can’t be here right now, but I’ve a request to make if you’ll let me in.”

There was a beep, and the door opened. Hancock straightened up and sashayed in, gesturing for Danse to follow. Danse frowned as he walked in after the ghoul. This was not the greeting given to someone welcomed by the Cabots. His grip tightened on his gun as he stepped inside.

The interior took Danse’s breath away. He had never seen a pre-war building so perfectly preserved, and his eyes roamed the room, drinking in every stunning detail. He barely listened as Hancock tried to sweet talk the ghoul guard - someone called Edward - and simply stared in wonder, a strange warmth in his chest as he absorbed the past.

“Hey, Hancock.”

A new voice dragged Danse out of stupor, and he turned to see a very young, very pretty woman had joined the gathering, twirling a strand of her long, blonde hair around one finger as she regarded Hancock with interest.

“Emogene,” Hancock said, flashing a winning smile. “Nice to see you at the homestead.”

Emogene rolled her eyes. “Only because Mother kicked up a fuss again. I’ll be back at the Third Rail before you know it. What brings you here?”

“We’re looking for an American flag to use in a funeral ceremony for a friend. Her husband was a soldier with a love of pre-war artefacts. Last time I was here, I noticed that you just so happened to have an undamaged one, and we were wondering if there was any way to convince you to part with it.”

“We?” Emogene glanced past Hancock and Edward, finally noticing Danse. She raised an eyebrow, and a small smile spread across her lips. Edward made a quiet groaning noise.

Emogene ignored him and walked past the two ghouls, circling Danse as her eyes flicked up and down, surveying him. Danse suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, a sensation which increased ten-fold when she stopped in front of him, smirking.

“Not every day I see Brotherhood around these parts,” she said, tilting her head to one side and playing with her hair again. “Not every day they’re so handsome, either.”

“I, uh,” said Danse, feeling his cheeks burn as Hancock silently sniggered behind Emogene, while Edward put his face in his hand. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Emogene chuckled. “And shy, too? Cute. Good to see a strong man who isn’t an overconfident tool.”

Danse didn’t know how to respond to that, and so stayed silent. The next second, she had moved forward, grabbing the handles of Danse’s armour and pulling herself up to his height, planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

As Danse stood rigid, shell shocked, Hancock lost control completely and burst into loud peals of laughter. Emogene winked, clearly enjoying herself, and sauntered away. Her hips swayed as she walked, and Danse’s eyes flicked down before he could stop them. He forced them up again, blushing furiously, but one glance at her face told him she _knew_ he had looked. Emogene gave him a mischievous grin before turning to Edward.

“Let them have the flag,” she said. “I doubt anyone will even notice it’s gone, and if they do, they won’t remember why we had it in the first place.”

As she walked away, Edward rolled his eyes, but stalked off up the stairs, returning a few minutes later with the flag, locked inside a triangular wooden case with glass panels. He handed it to Danse, who quickly stowed it away in his armour, his face still hot and uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” Danse said, and Edward grunted in response, before looking pointedly at Hancock.

“Don’t worry, tin can,” Hancock said, still giggling to himself. “I won’t tell Quinn. Now let’s try and get out of Boston before it gets dark.”

* * *

Boston had other ideas.

“God damn it, not again!” Danse yelled, his frustration mounting just as a bullet whizzed past his head, hitting the ground behind him with a dull thud. He reloaded his rifle and took out a few of the super mutants with a series of well placed headshots, the remaining mutants howling and gnashing their teeth.

This was the third attack since they had left the Cabots’, halting their progress. Now that they had the flag, neither Hancock nor Danse were willing to push ahead too hard, in case it was damaged. Each battle was becoming a long, drawn out farce, Danse’s temper being driven slowly towards the edge with every delay. He was starting to understand how Quinn had felt when their journey to Sanctuary had been constantly held back.

Hancock shot him a strange look and then crept away, out of sight. Danse ignored him. If the ghoul wanted to run, that was his prerogative. It simply proved what Danse had known all along: the mayor was nothing but a cowardly, self-serving-

There was a bang, and Hancock appeared behind the mutants, unloading his shotgun into each one in turn, until their brains painted the sidewalk with a gory pattern. He waved to Danse, signalling the all clear, before disappearing into a nearby building.

Blinking, Danse stood up. He hadn’t even ordered Hancock to flank, and yet he’d had done it anyway. A troublesome thought crossed his mind. Was he wrong about him?

Danse shook his head and pushed the idea aside. Regardless of how good Hancock was in a fight, he was still a junkie and a ghoul - who knew when he would turn feral?

_Maybe never,_ said a little voice in his head. _You can’t be sure he ever will._

_I can’t be sure that he won’t, though._

_Is it worth the hostility?_

Danse made his way over to the building Hancock had ducked into, squinting as his eyes tried to adjust to the low lighting. The ghoul was sat in the corner, puffing on a jet inhaler, his hat on top of a rickety old table.

“I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day,” he said, his eyes slightly unfocused as Danse glared at him. “Time to rest up, tin can.”

“But the flag-”

“It’s not going anywhere. And neither are we. You’ve been a shitheel all day, and I’m guessing that’s because you’re running on pure spite at this point. Get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

“Even if I trusted you, you’re high. That is not a suitable state to be keeping an eye out for trouble.”

Hancock giggled. “I’ve been tripping balls this entire adventure and it’s not affected me enough for you to comment on it.” He shot the paladin a lopsided grin of triumph. “Besides, if you miss out on sleep again, you’ll fight like crap tomorrow.”

Danse opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped, thinking of Quinn and what he had said to her the last night he had seen her.

_“A paladin is supposed to set an example to others, not cower over bad dreams.”_

“Fine.” He stomped off to the other side of the room, as far away from Hancock as he could manage, and exited his armour, feeling instantly vulnerable. Danse unsheathed his combat knife, tucking it into his boot, and then settled down in a corner, staring at the opposite wall.

“Subtle,” said Hancock, rolling his eyes as he stood up and reloaded his shotgun, before walking forwards and closing the door they had entered from. “I’ll wake you around midnight, alright? You might be able to go without sleep, but I can’t.”

Danse continued to stare ahead, not deeming Hancock’s comment worth an answer. He was on edge, the same way he had been at Sanctuary, just before Quinn had returned from the Institute. His armour was his shield, and he felt lost without it.

Quinn…

How was she doing? Had she gone to see Cade yet, like he’d asked? Somehow, Danse doubted this, stubborn as she was. More than likely she’d use every excuse under the sun until Cade lost his patience and dragged her there himself. Then again, maybe she would surprise him and want to recover of her own accord. Maybe she had found the vault suit by now, and Quinn would realise that he _did_ care, that all he wanted was for her to get better.

Suddenly, a scenario played in his head in which Danse presented the mended suit to Quinn himself before he left. She took it, shocked, but elated, and then thrown herself into his arms, hugging him tight. Even though intimate contact did not come naturally to him, he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed her touch.

Something stirred within him, and Danse felt uncomfortable. There he was again, thinking of her as anything but a friend. Danse knew his duty, and they came before his desires and his needs. There was Brotherhood, and then there was everything else. Nothing in-between.

_Then why are you here? What does this achieve for the Brotherhood?_

Another question he couldn’t answer. It occurred to Danse he was having a lot of those lately.

He shifted in his spot on the floor and laid his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. Better to try and sleep than mull over such pointless thoughts.

Within seconds, Danse was out.

* * *

He had returned to Rivet City again, the scene playing out like a well rehearsed play. Checking his gun, Danse edged down the stairs, feeling strangely calm. No matter what happened here, he would not leave this place whole.

The lights flickered, and as Danse scanned the area, he saw a lone, crumpled figure lying in the centre of the room. Something was wrong, though. They did not groan. They did not move.

_No, Cutler._

Danse fell to his knees, feet away from the body of his friend. He didn't want to explore this death again, didn’t want to turn him over and see those blank eyes staring back at him. Maybe if he just stayed here, it would be alright. If he didn’t look, Cutler would never leave him.

_“You let them die.”_

Something smashed into the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground. Danse didn’t try to stand up, but lay there, splayed on the floor, waiting for the inevitable. He’d had enough.

A pair of big, yellow-green hands fastened around his neck, the thumbs pushing deep into his throat, and the familiar lipless face appeared over his. Its teeth gnashed, and Danse instinctively moved, his body fighting for life on its own, trying to push the super mutant back.

The struggle proved fruitless, the strong hands pressing down so hard his throat felt like it was about to collapse. Dizziness set in, his vision tunnelling as he was slowly choked. The last thing he saw before the world went black was a set of dog tags tight around the monster’s meaty neck. Danse didn’t have to read the words to know what they said, what they _always_ said.

_Cutler._

* * *

Danse gasped and retched, the world spinning out of his control as he slumped forward onto the floor. It took a few seconds to remember where he was. He raised a shaking hand to his neck and massaged it, trying to ease the tightness in his throat as his chest heaved.

“You alright?”

Danse jumped. He had forgotten the ghoul was with him. For the first time since he had known him, Hancock looked deadly serious. There were no jokes, no goading or aggravating comments - just pure, simple concern.

“I’m fine,” Danse replied. He may have sounded more convincing if his voice hadn’t come out in a wheeze. But Hancock didn’t comment any further, turning back to the boarded up window, though Danse noticed him watching out of the corner of his eye.

Sweat was dripping from him, saturating his skin. He wiped it away with a noise of annoyance, and then pulled off his uniform hood, running a hand through his sodden hair.

Without thinking, he mumbled, “They’re getting worse.”

“Worse?” said Hancock, turning to him and frowning.

“No,” Danse replied quickly. He didn’t want the ghoul involved in this. “It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

There was a pause.

“Alright then.” Hancock returned to staring out of the cracks in the boards, a series of emotions flickering over his face. After a few seconds, he glanced back. “Is this why you didn’t want to sleep? Do you have them often?”

Danse slowly got to his feet, avoiding Hancock’s gaze, and pulled his hood back on. “It’s my turn for watch. Get some rest.”

If Hancock was bothered by Danse’s lack of an answer, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply nodded and lowered his shotgun, stepping away from the window. “Been quiet so far. Wake me if there’s any trouble.”

Danse bit back a sarcastic answer - _no, I thought I’d just leave you to sleep in the middle of an attack_ \- and climbed into his power armour, relief flooding through him as his body returned to its metal shell. He stomped over to where Hancock had been, feeling more run down and exhausted than ever, and checked over his rifle.

“Hey, tin can,” came Hancock’s voice from across the room.

Danse gave a heavy sigh. He was in no mood for another of the ghoul’s stupid, needling-

“Thanks for earlier. For saving my irradiated ass, I mean.”

“I…” Danse looked at him, bemused, but the ghoul was wearing a completely earnest expression. “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah. Just don’t tell Quinn I said that. The teasing would be endless.”

“Only if you don’t tell her I saved you in the first place.”

Hancock chuckled. “Deal. Wouldn’t want her to think we’re _bonding_ or anything now, would we?”

Despite himself, Danse grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my beta, waiting4morning. I really look forward to the weekend these days, when I can release another chapter. So thanks again for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I do writing it.


	27. In Death and Duty

Sanctuary loomed in the distance, a sprawling mess of run-down houses and even more run-down people. The sight of it filled Danse with relief. His mood had been decidedly ugly since he had set off from Boston that morning, an awkward quiet crackling between himself and Hancock.

The day had started with an edge of hostility so fierce he had surprised even himself. Danse had his suspicions of its source: a sharp, prickling sensation within him that felt uncomfortably close to shame.

The ghoul _knew._

That in itself was entirely unforgivable. It was one thing for Quinn to know as much as she did, but Hancock?

How long would it take before that knowledge was used against him? How long before the ghoul’s lip twisted into a sneer as he jeered about the soldier who had nightmares?

But despite his sharp comments, Hancock had not taken the bait. This was...unusual. Danse couldn't think of a single time where the ghoul hadn't leapt at the opportunity to rankle him, and yet all of a sudden he had the patience of a saint.

Not that it wasn't annoying Hancock - it was obvious that the ghoul was gritting his teeth and praying for restraint. But somehow he was managing to keep his cool, simply ignoring the deliberate goading.

_Perhaps he’s just biding his time. Waiting for an audience._

Yes. That was the obvious answer. Danse wondered if he should push harder. After all, better to trigger it now, on his own terms, than wait for the blade to fall.

All thought of the ghoul was driven from his mind as they crossed over the bridge that led into the settlement. Piper’s red coat was bright and bold against the dull, dusty ground, and she nudged Nick and Preston before waving.

_They're alright._

Danse resisted the urge to raise a hand and calmly made his way down toward them as Hancock forged ahead, waving wildly back.

“Are you two ill?” asked Piper as they drew towards the group. She cocked her head to one side, smirking at Hancock and Danse’s confused faces. “You’re not bickering like an old married couple.”

Danse scowled, tensing as the ghoul grinned.

“What can I say?” Hancock said, tipping his hat in her direction. “A little time away from it all was just what we needed to bring the spark back.”

They all laughed, and Danse suddenly felt like an outsider, standing on the edge of their world. His frown deepened. What did he care? The Brotherhood was all he needed, all he wanted...and yet there was a desire to be part of the circle that stood in front of him.

Stupid.

“Was your mission a success?” he asked loudly over the dying giggles.

“Yeah,” said Piper, still snickering a little. “We gave it to the preacher in Diamond City to look over while we organise the rest of it here. Means he can carry on with his duties for now, and we can escort him back here when we're ready.”

Danse nodded. It made sense. “I have the flag, but I think we should practice on something else in the meantime, to save dirtying it.”

“Good idea,” said Hancock.

There was a beat of silence and everyone turned to look at him.

The ghoul frowned as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a tattered packet of cigarettes. “What?”

“That’s it?” Nick quizzed, folding his arms. “Nothing to add?”

“Like…?”

“Tin can,” said Piper.

“Clanky,” interjected Preston.

“Rust bucket,” Piper continued, counting off her fingers.

“Mailbox,” Preston added.

“Crew cut.”

“Scrap heap.”

“Ol’ Clanger.”

“Rusty.”

Piper frowned. “No, we said ‘rusty’ already.”

“Nah, that was _‘rust bucket.’”_

“Oh damn, you're right...wait, ‘toaster-’”

“Alright, settle down,” Nick said quickly, shooting Danse a nervous look.

Danse looked at Piper and Preston, blinking. A strange feeling bubbled up within him, and suddenly he found he was chuckling.

It was everyone else’s turn to stare at him.

Danse shrugged and turned to Preston. “Get your Minutemen organised. We're going to need two bodies to assist you with the flag folding. The rest will come with me to learn how to do the gun salute the Brotherhood adopted from the old military books.”

He strode off towards the houses without waiting for an answer, still quietly laughing. In the distance he heard them begin to talk amongst themselves.

_“Hancock, did you break him?”_

* * *

The work with the Minutemen was slow. Danse hadn’t expected any less; even with the Brotherhood, learning a perfect gun salute had been hard work. He had been taught the process by none other than Paladin Krieg, and had fought tooth and nail to make sure he was on the rifle party the day they had buried all those who had died at the battle of Adams Air Force Base. That day had been his first participation in a funeral, his first real attempt of the three-volley salute, but it had not been the last.

Sarah Lyons. Owyn Lyons. Those had been his duty, too.

He’d taught other brothers and sisters the salute after that; now it came to him as naturally as breathing. But he’d never led a volley before. Danse felt nervous.

After a week of constant drills, he’d finally gotten the Minutemen to learn all the commands and hold themselves properly. There had been a lot of slouching and standing incorrectly, which he’d stamped out quickly and ruthlessly. Any grumbling had also been pressed out of them. Danse knew he was being harsh, but he didn’t care. He had held little confidence in the Minutemen being anything more than settlers in uniform, and their complete lack of discipline had proven him right.

Thankfully, his training worked wonders. The art of intimidation was something he held in his core, and his power armour certainly helped to enhance that particular skill. Gone were the eye rolls and mutterings as he had barked out his orders. Rifle in hand, he stomped down the line, inspecting them and their uniform.

Being included in the rifle party wasn’t just about being able to shoot and move in time. They had to look immaculate, like they gave a damn not just about themselves, but the man who was being buried.

_“You must be crisp in manner, in action, and in appearance,”_ he had said, towering over them with a glare. _“Anything less than perfection is disrespecting the dead. If you can’t be bothered to bring yourselves up to standard, you’ll have a hard time convincing the grieving widow that you’re bothered about the death of her husband, too.”_

His eyes trailed over each recruit as they stared determinedly ahead, still as statues and wearing stony, serious expressions.

Good.

With one final glance over them, he moved to the front, pausing.

“Phase one!” he said sharp and loud, noting with satisfaction that their hands clenched at the guns in their grip, the butt of the rifle planted firmly in the ground. “Ready!”

They moved in unison, bringing their rifles up to their chests in one fluid motion.

“Right turn!”

The line obeyed, and when he rolled off the next two commands of “chamber” and “round,” they loaded their weapons in a single click, still looking straight on. Danse smiled and walked around them, checking their stances and hold. All were perfect.

“Phase two!” he barked, glad to see none of them jumped. The first time he had yelled at them, one of them had dropped their rifle. It had gone off with a bang, shooting a hole through the brim of their friend’s hat; the reprimand Danse had given them had carried all the way across Sanctuary. Hancock still liked to bring it up every time he saw him.

“Firing position! Aim! _Fire!”_

The crack that filled the air was music to Danse’s ears. Not a single rifle was out of place. The group hesitated, all of them shocked at the success, and one man let out a nervous giggle.

“Quiet in the ranks!” snapped Danse, though secretly he was pleased. This was a _huge_ improvement. The man who had laughed went bright red, but did not move.

“Chamber! Round! Aim! _Fire!”_

Again, a clean shot. Danse hardly dared to believe it. He continued the rest of the drill, and every time they all fired together without a single shot straying. A warmth flared in his chest, and he realised, almost disbelievingly, that he was _proud_ of them.

Standing them down, Danse stomped back to the front again, his lips twitching. He didn’t bother to hold back, and a wide smile broke out on his face. The stunned look that rippled through his team was nearly enough to make him laugh, and after a moment, they tentatively smiled back.

“Excellent work,” he said, still smiling at them. “Tomorrow we will work towards reducing the commands. In the real drill, the only orders you will receive will be ‘ready, aim, fire’; I expect the same level of quality as I’ve just seen now. You’re more than capable of it. For now, though, you’re dismissed.”

The group nodded and saluted, before moving away, chattering amongst themselves in low voices. Danse watched them go, the smile still lingering on his face, and then sighed. On the day, he would be with them, doing the salute. Once they had the basic commands sorted, the training with _him_ would start. That would be...difficult. While they moved together well, his standard was a lot higher than theirs.

_Maybe I should just lead…?_

No, that wouldn’t work. There were only six of them. Training up another Minuteman to make the seventh member would throw a spanner in the works - he would either have to run them into the ground with the drill, or learn how to match their level instead.

Shaking his head, Danse strolled across to where the others were practicing the flag folding. Thankfully, Preston and the synth were quick to learn, and he had left them in charge of leading that particular drill, but he still liked to check on their progress when he was free.

None of them looked as Danse approached, and he lurked on the outskirts of the little gathering, watching Preston give out his orders. Despite his gentle nature, he was doing surprisingly well, keeping to the strict tempo that Danse had taught him.

The folding itself was a different matter.

This was the one thing Danse couldn’t help with, and he felt utterly useless for it. As a tradition, the Brotherhood didn’t use flags in their ceremonies - finding the resources just to make them was difficult enough without giving them away at every funeral. He’d scanned the book as best he could and practiced it himself before going over it with the others, but somehow, the whole procedure felt sloppy. Anxiety spiked within him as he watched the six of them fumble their way through the folding, tucking in the material clumsily and occasionally bickering when one of them got it wrong.

Eventually, Preston turned to Danse, sighing.

“Can you take over from the orders? I can’t do both at once, and I think having an outside pair of eyes will really help with this.”

Danse pushed his surprise away - he thought they hadn’t seen him, after all - and nodded, striding over. The book was on a nearby crate, where they had clearly been into it, back and forth, to check what their mistakes were. He picked it up and stood next to them, observing as he gave out the orders. Almost at once, he spotted the error.

“Alright, alright. Let’s slow this down.” He flipped the book around so they could look at the pages, and he pointed out a diagram. “Piper, you need to tuck it under, not over. And gh...you,” he said awkwardly, turning to Hancock, “you need to make sure you keep the fabric stretched tight on your side, otherwise the whole thing is too slack and it’ll just fall apart. Let’s start from the beginning…”

By the time he had finished with them, the folding was a lot neater, though still not quite right. They all looked tired, battered by Danse’s perfectionism, but pleased as well. Danse handed the book back to Preston and nodded.

“A little more work and you’ll be well on your way,” he said.

Preston glanced at the sky, which was streaked with the dying light of a late sunset, and then met Danse’s eye. “Will you help us tomorrow? I think your supervision was a lot better than us trying to do this on our own.”

“Yes, but…” Danse frowned, trying to work out the logistics in his head. He couldn’t be in two places at once. “Hm. I’ll have to split the rifle party and the flag folding sessions across the day. Maybe in slots of an hour per task, with rest breaks between for each…”

“Don’t over think it,” said Hancock, rubbing his eyes. “I think we’re all fucked right now. We can talk about it tomorrow after some sleep. Having a clear head does wonders for planning.”

The others muttered in agreement, but Danse shrugged. He had far too much to run through his mind right now for something as trivial as sleep. There were the drills he planned to do in the morning with the rifle party, and now the added drills he would have to learn for the flag folding in case he was needed for that during the actual ceremony. Not to mention he had to practice the rifle drills himself…

A pain shot through his head and he winced, the telltale sensation of stress washing over him. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed. They were too busy packing up the practice flag.

Danse strode away, stifling a yawn, and scowled. In truth, he hated funerals. They made him think far too much of Cutler, whose grave had been a super mutant hive, and of Krieg, his first real funeral.

“Hey, Danse.”

Danse turned around to see Piper looking at him.

“Yes?”

“Um...in the book…” she flicked through the pages and stopped, walking over to him and prodding the page. “In the book it says that the flag has to be presented to the family by the…’detail leader.’ Whatever that is. But… as you’re leading this whole thing already, we…” Piper glanced at the rest of the group behind her, who all nodded vigorously. “...we thought maybe you would-”

“No.”

His blunt tone took her by surprise. “Pardon?”

“No. Don’t ask me again.”

He stomped off before she could respond, leaving her spluttering at his abruptness. There was a twinge of guilt, but the last thing Danse wanted was to discuss it with her, let alone in front of a crowd of people. The idea of _him_ presenting the flag was so inappropriate it made him cringe.

Grumbling to himself, he made his way across Sanctuary to the house on the furthest edges of the settlement. Isolated and quiet, it was just how Danse liked it. He tried to push the flag out of his head, and found his thoughts drifting back to Krieg. Normally he tried to stifle these recollections, but at the moment, the only other alternative made him much more uncomfortable.

Not that the memory of Krieg’s death was ever really far away. Danse could remember the moment he was told as clear as day.

They had been preparing for a fight.

* * *

**_ 2277 _ **

Cheers rang out through the Citadel, echoing down the corridors, filling every room and space with merriment. The Enclave was gone! Adams Air Force Base had been taken! Victory for the Brotherhood!

Krieg was dead.

This simple, universal truth had reached Knight-Sergeant Danse less than two hours before, as he and his knights were preparing to mobilise and join the fray. The battle had been won without them, but by god, what a spectacular win it had been.

Danse didn’t care. Paladin Krieg was dead.

He had managed to keep his composure in front of the others, even smiling a little as his friends had celebrated, Rachel Marguerie almost knocking over her husband as she had thrown herself into his arms, and Cutler whooping as he clapped Danse on the back. But no amount of jubilation could fill the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, the loss of his mentor a growing coldness that was spreading to every inch of his being.

Krieg was _dead._

Not wanting to dampen the mood, Danse had sloped away, shuffling through the twisting corridors of the Citadel with his head bowed, thoroughly ignored by the soldiers now buzzing with revelry. The officers only tried to settle them with a half-hearted attempt. This was their moment. This was everyone’s moment.

Danse walked on, wondering if the bottle of vodka he had stashed in his footlocker was still there. Alcohol had a nasty habit of going missing in times of war. Not that it would be a problem after tonight.

“Danse!”

Danse glanced back, surprised anyone had noticed him at all, and spotted Cutler forcing his way through the crowd, frowning. He smiled to himself. Of course Cutler would know something was wrong. He always did.

“Hey,” Cutler said as he caught up. He motioned to an empty room and walked inside. Danse followed, and Cutler closed the door behind them, before turning back to his friend, still looking troubled. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

_“Danse.”_ Cutler was using the tone of voice he always did when he was worried. He sounded like a parent trying desperately to convince their child to eat all their vegetables. Or so Rachel Marguerie had said, anyway. Danse had nothing to compare it to.

Danse shrugged and leaned against an old desk, folded his arms and staring at his feet. A second later, Cutler had parked himself next to him, nudging him gently in the ribs, right where he was ticklish. Danse made a noise like a molerat being sat on, and nearly fell off the desk.

“Come on,” said Cutler quietly. “You should be celebrating with the rest of us. What’s wrong?”

There was a pause, and then Danse sighed. The news would get around sooner or later. “Krieg is dead.”

Cutler drew in a sharp breath. “Are you...are you okay?”

He considered lying for a brief moment. No. This was Cutler. There were no secrets with him. Danse shook his head.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.” Danse looked at his friend and smiled before he could argue. “I just...I need some time alone to think, that’s all. Go enjoy the party with everyone else.”

“Party?” Cutler pulled a face. “We’re not having a party.”

“If everyone in this facility doesn’t wake up with some form of hangover tomorrow, I’ll be extremely surprised.”

Cutler laughed and stood up, stretching. “Yeah, I think I’ll be a part of that number.” He dropped his arms as Danse got to his feet, his expression softening. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”

“Thanks, but...no. You go on with the others.”

Danse could tell from the look on Cutler’s face that he wasn’t happy about it, but he relented with a nod and left the room. Danse followed him out, turning left while Cutler went right, and made his way towards the dorms, craving the bitter kick of vodka more than ever.

The dorms were completely empty, but despite this, Danse could still faintly hear the noise of the other soldiers in the distance. He walked over to his bed and crouched down next to his footlocker, opening it with the resignation that it would be empty.

It was not empty.

This shocked Danse more than anything else, but he decided not to dwell on the matter. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been drunk, but now felt like a good time to revisit the state.

Danse sat on his bed, cracking open the bottle and savouring the sharp smell, before swigging directly from it. He coughed, his eyes watering at the burn, and then grinned. The warmth that spread through his chest reminded him of the nights in Rivet City, when a bottle of vodka had been the only thing to stave off the cold.

“What are you doing?”

He had just been in the middle of another swig when the quiet voice made him jump and spill the alcohol all down his front. Spluttering, he glanced over to see a small boy standing at the entrance of the dorm, silhouetted by the light of the corridor.

Danse jumped to his feet, almost dropping his bottle. “Maxson, sir!”

Arthur Maxson’s face fell. “Why does everyone have to call me that?”

“Sir?”

“Calling me ‘sir’ all the time. Why?”

“Well, I…” Danse voice trailed off as he looked at the boy, before slowly lowering himself back down onto his bed. “What would you like to be called?”

Arthur Maxson glanced up sharply at him, as if looking for a trace of a joke. Danse held his gaze, his expression grave, and the boy suddenly smiled.

“Arthur,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Knight-Sergeant Danse.” He paused, wiping at the damp patch on his uniform. “But...you can call me Danse if you want, si- I mean - Arthur.”

Arthur beamed at him. Despite himself, Danse smiled back.

“So, what are you doing?” Arthur asked, edging closer.

Danse looked at the bottle in his hand and sighed, screwing the lid back on. As much as he wanted it, he didn’t really agree with heavy drinking in front of children. “Just...wetting my beak a little, sir. I mean, _Arthur.”_

The boy giggled at him. “You don’t have a beak.”

“It’s...well, it’s a figure of speech. A stupid one, mind.” Danse stood up and walked back to his  footlocker, stowing away the alcohol with a twinge of longing. The boy watched him, shuffling forward again as Danse stood awkwardly next to his bed, unsure what to do. Children were...difficult.

“You look sad,” said Arthur, and Danse winced. “Why are you sad?”

“I’m not…” Danse paused, and then sat back down on his bed. “A friend of mine died today.”

“Who?”

“...Paladin Krieg.”

“Oh.” Arthur shuffled forward and sat next to Danse on the bed, looking up at him. “He was scary, but...he brought back books for me when I told Sarah I liked them. He overheard, I think.”

Danse blinked. “That’s what he was doing in those sweep missions?”

Arthur shrugged as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, and Danse found a chuckle bubbling up in his throat. Krieg had risked life and limb on numerous occasions to bring pre-war books in pristine condition back to the Citadel. He had often wondered what had happened to them. Now he knew.

His laughter died away quickly, the awkward silence returning. Arthur stood up, fidgeting, not quite looking at him.

“I better go. Sorry for bothering you.”

Paladin Krieg was not... _had_ not been the kind of man to value name and rank above skill. Brutal in his ways, his mentor had preferred to push hard to achieve results. Gifts to children for the sake of it had been simply unheard of.

There was something more here. Something he was missing. Danse thought of all the days he had seen Arthur in the corridors, head down, avoiding the stares of the soldiers as he trailed around after whichever scribe was escorting him to his next lesson. Always quiet. Always separated from the others. Always…

_Alone._

“Wait,” Danse said, before the little boy had taken a single step. Arthur looked at him, puzzled. Danse hesitated and then made up his mind. Yes, he would take up the mantle. Clearing his throat, he said, “If you want...next time I’m out on patrol, I can try and bring some books back for you.”

Arthur’s face lit up with delight.

* * *

_Right face. Chamber. Round._

Tomorrow, he’d be leaving to collect her.

The weeks in Sanctuary had taken their toll on Danse, that was for sure. Constant drills, continuous planning, lying awake at night running every miniscule detail through his mind, making sure everything was in place…

_Ready. Aim. Fire._

Danse still wasn’t certain if they were ready, but Piper had insisted there was nothing more to learn; Preston, the ghoul, and the synth had set off that afternoon to Diamond City to escort the preacher. Soon Danse would be leaving to escort Quinn.

_Ready. Chamber. Round._

The thought was daunting. Would Quinn be ready? Would she even want this to happen? Would he return alone to tell everyone that the funeral wasn't going ahead at all? Would she scream and yell at him for presuming he could organise such a sensitive event on her behalf?

_Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should stop it now before I offend her. I barely know her. I shouldn't be the one to do this._

_Ready. Aim-_

Danse paused mid movement and looked dumbly down at the gun in his hands. Quinn had made him this rifle. His grip tightened on it.

“Knock knock.”

Danse flinched and swung sharply around to see Piper stood at the open door, hands raised in mock surrender. He relaxed, lowering his weapon.

“You alright?” she asked, giving him a warm smile.

“Fine.” He turned away from her, resuming his practice.

_Ready. Aim. Fire._

“You've been doing that for weeks,” Piper said gently. “I think you've got it.”

“A job needs to be done properly, or not at all.”

“True.” Piper paused. “This is a real good thing you're doing for Blue, y’know.”

Danse's stomach clenched. “You've all helped.”

_Ready. Chamber. Relo-_

“But it was _your_ idea.”

Danse hesitated, lowering the rifle again as he glanced over at her, unsure what to say. Thank you? A denial? Eventually, he settled for, “Why do you call her Blue?”

Piper stretched as she moved across the room and sat on the nearby bed. “For that old vault suit she used to wear.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” She frowned. “What did you think I meant?”

“Her eyes.”

“Her eyes?”

“Well, they're blue.” Danse paused as realisation at what he had just said dawned on him. Noticing Piper’s smirk, he flushed.

“Been paying attention to her eyes, huh?” Piper said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

“My training makes me more perceptive than most,” Danse said hurriedly. “That is all.”

“Uh huh. And what did your keen observational skills deduce about her eyes?”

“Nothing of any note.”

He could feel his face burning; if Piper’s wicked grin was anything to go by, she was enjoying this immensely.

“Alright, alright. I'll stop teasing.” She stood up, still smiling. “But don't worry, soldier boy. I won't say a word.”

The idea of simply denying it sprung to mind, but Danse realised it would be pointless. Piper was not a stupid woman. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a handful of colourfully wrapped candy, selected one, and then held out her hand to Danse.

Danse frowned, staring at them. Childish things, really.

“Go on,” she said, shaking her hand impatiently. “They won't bite.”

Danse took one.

Piper grinned as she popped a piece of candy in her mouth. Then her smile faltered slightly. “You look exhausted. Have you been doing that drill all night?”

“I'm fine.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“...I know.”

She sighed, still watching him closely, and tapped her fingers on her arms. “Changed your mind about presenting the flag yet?”

_Not this again._

“No.” This was a topic he would not back down from, no matter how hard he was pushed. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do that to Quinn.

Piper frowned. “But you’re close to her.”

“Which is precisely why I shouldn’t do it.”

“No, it’s precisely why you _should.”_ She moved towards him, hesitated, and then reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder.

There was a brief urge to shake her off, but it passed quickly. In all honesty, Danse simply felt too tired to care. Her fingers gave a little squeeze, and then she let her arm drop away.

“We’ve all talked and we think you’re the best man for the job. This is your idea and...you’re the closest one to her.”

“Don’t make me do it. Please.”

The pleading note escaped before he could stop it, and he felt his cheeks burn again as her eyes widened. There was a long pause.

“What’s stopping you?” she said finally. “What’s the problem?”

Now that was a question with infinite answers. How could he even begin to explain his thoughts on the matter? The delivery of the flag was a heartfelt moment - a mark of respect from the military to the deceased’s loved ones. A display of gratitude for their service to their country and their sacrifice to keep others safe. The book said so.

The idea of standing over that man’s grave, handing such a precious symbol to his grieving widow, when he felt the way he did about her, made Danse feel sick to his stomach. He was already overstepping his boundaries by organising this in the first place, especially since he hadn’t consulted Quinn at all. Presenting her with the flag would be the final insult: not only to Nate, but to her as well.

But he couldn’t tell Piper this. Admitting it to himself was taxing enough without inviting others into his misery.

Silence followed for an uncomfortably long time, until Piper sighed, folding her arms. “Try to get some rest before tomorrow, okay? You're worrying us.”

Danse blinked. “Us?”

“Yeah, you know…” She gestured vaguely, and then frowned as he continued to give her a blank look. _“_ Me. Nick. Hancock, Preston, and Sturges. _Us.”_

“Why would you be worried about me?” The comment was not meant as sarcasm - his confusion was genuine. Danse had known from the beginning where he stood with them, and he had returned the favour. They were all here for a singular, shared goal. Concern wasn't supposed to be a part of it.

And yet he had been concerned about them when they had gone to the library.

“Oh come on, Danse. We all know you don't sle-”

Something clicked in Danse’s head.

“What has the ghoul told you?” he snapped, the venom in his voice making Piper jump violently.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice equally sharp. “Why? What happened?”

Danse could tell from the tone of her voice that she was telling the truth, and he groaned in frustration, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Danse?”

He looked at Piper blearily, to see she was smiling again, though this time it was forced.

“Talk to me.”

Danse shook his head. “There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine.”

She glared at him so fiercely he almost relented. Instead, he glared back and said, “So you’re the one who gave Quinn lessons in scowling.”

Piper blinked at him, her face dropping, and then started to laugh. Danse relaxed. The moment had passed. Tilting her head to the side, Piper grinned at him, before her expression softened into something almost akin to fondness. Danse had the strange feeling that he was growing on her.

_Don’t be ridiculous. You have nothing in common with these people. Nothing to offer them. The only thing you know is war and death._

“She won’t hate you for giving her the flag, Danse.”

Danse flinched, his grip tightening on his gun, and Piper’s triumphant look told him he had given himself away. He cursed inside his head, but worked to keep his face as blank as possible.

“If anything,” Piper continued, “I think Quinn will find comfort in what you’ve done. You listened to her and you remembered what was important, even though it was just a passing comment. She’ll love you for that.”

“I’m not doing this to make her like me. I’m doing it because it’s what she needs.”

“I know. We all know. And it shows, I promise.”

Danse sighed, but didn’t reply, his mind whirring.

“Get some sleep, okay?” she said, turning to go.

He made a snap decision.

“Wait,” he said sharply, and Piper glanced back, eyebrows raised. Danse swallowed nervously and then forced the words out, his stomach twisting with dread. “I’ll...I’ll do it. I’ll present the flag.”

Her face broke into a gentle smile, and she nodded. “Thank you.”

She waited for him to answer, and when he didn't, she left.

When her footsteps faded, Danse exhaled heavily.

He opened his hand and looked at the candy in his palm, small and brightly coloured. Putting his rifle on the bed, Danse unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, before discarding of the plastic wrapper and picking up his gun again.

_Ready. Chamber. Reload._

_Left face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote my beta, “... I just wanted to nudge [Danse] from behind like a toddler too shy to go play with the other kids.”
> 
> Thank you to waiting4morning for their invaluable beta help! They're amazing. And thank you to everyone who reviewed! Much love to you!
> 
> My next two chapters may be delayed because I have various trips around the country over the next two weeks.


	28. Truck Stop Tinkering

Quinn traced the screen of her Pip-Boy, nerves fluttering through her as she swayed with the movement of the vertibird. Nate’s holotape was nestled deep within the device on her wrist, waiting for the moment to be released again. She hovered her finger over the play button, before changing her mind and clenching her fist instead. God, she wanted to hear his voice. But that would mean hearing Shaun as well.

“Quinn?”

Danse’s voice was barely audible over the noise of the aircraft, even though he was sat directly opposite her. Every inch of his worn face was tense, his shadowed eyes fixed on hers.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he said after a pause. “You don’t-”

“I do,” she replied. “I have to. And I _want_ to.”

Those were the same words she had said to Carson, less than half an hour ago. He had gripped her arm as she had stormed through the ship, throwing her gear together like she was marching into battle, before pulling her aside. When she had told him where she was going, he had hesitated, and then quickly pulled himself together.

_“Take some time. You don’t need to go right away.”_

He didn’t understand. But why would he? He had his love right with him, warm and breathing, able to hold him in the night. Nate had been trapped in Sanctuary for centuries. She had to free him, whatever the cost.

Quinn dropped her gaze as Danse continued to stare at her, his features creased with concern. She didn’t need his pity. She just needed to focus, needed to…

A shiver rushed through her, and Quinn hugged herself, her body being buffeted by the wind. The cold, always the cold. It followed her wherever she went, taunting her with the source of her misery. That damn _vault._

Danse had tried to convince her to bring her armour with her, but she had point-blank refused. The last thing she wanted to do was clunk around Sanctuary in steel and circuitry. No. She had to feel the wind. Feel the ground at her feet. Feel her grief as he was buried. She couldn’t encase herself away for this.

Thank God for Kapraski. Danse may not have relented if the lancer hadn’t offered them a lift. He had been all smiles, saying how he’d ‘heard’ they were travelling out west for a scavenging mission, and that he was going that way already. The fact that Carson had been lurking in the background had not escaped Quinn. It didn’t matter to him that she had told him to stay behind, so long as she got there safe.

Quinn wasn’t sure why she didn’t want Carson along. He’d asked if she would like him to go with her, but before he had finished the question, she had shut him down. And yet despite that, he had _insisted_ on helping Kapraski pilot the vertibird. They both knew he had no idea how to fly.

Carson was ‘helping' now, pointing at buttons and asking questions so often, Kapraski had to keep batting his hands away from the controls.

Huddling over, Quinn clutched at her hair, trying to block out the roar of the vertibird, the sound rocketing through her head and scratching at her brain. She just needed quiet. She just needed…

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and Quinn jumped. Looking up, she was greeted by the face of Danse. Once again, he had moved without her hearing him, and was now crouched in front of her, looking pale.

“Are you alright?” she saw him say, though his words were drowned out by the noise. “We can go back-”

Quinn shook her head violently and placed her hand on top of Danse’s steel plated one without thinking.

“I’m fine,” she shouted back, quickly removing her hand as Danse’s eyes flicked to where she had touched him. “I just...I’m fine.”

He nodded and carefully stood, turning to look out at the wasteland below. Quinn returned to looking at the floor, the constant motion sending waves of nausea rippling through her body. Scrunching her uniform between her fingers, she shut her eyes, counting under her breath the way her mother had taught her when she had gotten car sick as a child.

Her body had just reached the point where it could hang on no longer when there was a bump; Quinn jolted upright, clinging to her seat, and shot a look to the outside.

They had landed.

Faster than thought, she threw herself out of the aircraft and bent over, gasping as the sickening feeling enveloped her.

_Deep breaths. Deep breaths._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

“Quinn!”

She heard running footsteps, and then a pair of hands grabbed at her.

“Don’t!” Quinn wheezed, pulling away. “Feel sick!”

“Oh...well, face the other way, Blue.”

She laughed, her situation momentarily forgotten, and took a few more breaths until the urge to vomit lessened somewhat. When she straightened up again, she found herself surrounded.

Piper. Hancock. Preston. Nick.

There was a loud thud behind her, and she turned to see Danse walking towards her, away from the vertibird. A clunk and a hiss followed, and the cockpit opened, Carson and Kapraski popping their heads out with their mouths hanging open.

“A synth?” Carson gasped, staring at Nick.

_Shit._

Everyone tensed, and Quinn cursed her stupidity. In her haste to leave the Prydwen, she had completely forgotten about Nick. From the look on Danse’s face, so had he, but his expression flicked from alarm to something dark so fast, Quinn barely had time to register it.

He straightened up and snarled, “Out of the cockpit. _Now.”_

Quinn frowned at the odd request, but Carson and Kapraski obeyed without question, scrambling down from the vertibird and lining up to attention. The second they were in front of the paladin, she understood.

He towered over the two soldiers, radiating menace as he stepped forward, his voice razor sharp with authority.

“You are not to breathe a word of this synth to anyone. Not to each other. Not on the ship. Not anywhere at all. If you do, and I find out - and I _will_ find out - I will deal with you both personally. _Is that understood?”_

“Yes sir!” they said in unison.

“I don’t have a problem with synths anyway, sir!” Carson said.

“Me neither, so long as they’re not shooting at me,” Kapraski added quickly, nodding at Nick. “And this one isn’t, so…”

_“Enough.”_ Danse looked deeply displeased at their words but also relieved. Quinn thought she knew why. On the one hand, their acceptance of synths meant that no harm would come to Nick. However, that was also against the morals of the Brotherhood, and of the morals of Danse himself.

_This isn’t about Nick’s safety...he’s doing it for me._

A strange mixture of annoyance and gratitude tore through Quinn, and she coughed, catching everyone’s attention.

“Carson...Kapraski,” she said, smiling at them. “Nick - the synth - is my friend. Not only that, but he’s worked tirelessly against the Institute to bring them down. Whatever Institute synths are, Nick’s not one of them. Paladin Danse doesn’t approve of my choice of companionship, but I asked him to trust me on this one occasion. Against his better judgement, he has.”

Danse threw her a half annoyed, half thankful look.

“So,” she went on, “please, don’t tell anyone. Nick helped me find my son...or at least helped me find his ghost. I owe him.”

Carson nodded and smiled back, glancing nervously at Danse before saying, “Like I said, I don’t have a problem with synths, and neither does Tom.” He looked at Nick. “Nick, is it?”

“Yup,” said Nick, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket as he patted the rest of his coat with the other hand.

“You’ve nothing to worry about from me. And...” Another glance in the direction of the paladin. “If I’m ever back here again, I’d like to talk to you some more. I’ve never met a synth that didn’t try to shoot me on si…”

Carson trailed off at the livid expression on Danse’s face, and shuffled his feet, staring at the ground. Nick dropped the cigarette he had been holding.

“I, uh…” Nick paused, still absentmindedly patting his pockets, apparently unaware his smoke had escaped him. “Yeah, sure, kid. If you want.”

“Knight, Lancer,” Danse said, his tone crackling with anger. “Dismissed.”

“Sir!” Carson and Kapraski saluted him and then practically ran back to the vertibird, clambering back into the cockpit without a second look. The wind whipped up as it took off, coating them all with a thin layer of dust. Quinn coughed and spluttered, covering her face, and by the time she had wiped the grit from her eyes, the vertibird was almost at the horizon.

Silence hung over them all as they watched it go. Nick patted his pocket and made a small noise of approval, pulling a lighter out from the depths of his coat. The flame flicked to life as he held it near his mouth, and then he blinked, looking confused.

“You dropped something,” Hancock said, stooping down and picking up the fallen cigarette.

“Thanks.” Nick stuck it in his mouth and lit it, puffing a little as he kept his eyes on the aircraft in the distance. As it disappeared out of sight, he turned to Danse. “And...thank you for...well.”

“Don’t mention it,” Danse said, looking like he would very much prefer if Nick never mentioned it ever again.

The awkward quiet returned, and one by one, they all looked at Quinn.

“So,” she said, trying force her voice to be calm, hating how high pitched it suddenly sounded. “Danse tells me that you...that…”

She couldn’t go on.

“Only if you want to, General,” said Preston. “This is entirely up to you.”

“I do want it.”

“Then…” he glanced over to the hills where the vault lay. “With your permission, may we collect your husband so we can...prepare him?”

Quinn blinked, stunned. “You...you want my permission?”

They all nodded solemnly, and she thought her chest might burst with love.

“Yes...you have my permission.”

The men all glanced at each other and then walked off, while Piper took her arm.

“Come on, Blue,” she murmured, pulling her towards the centre of the settlement. “There’s just one more thing...then we’ll handle the rest.”

“Oh?”

“Where...sorry, I don’t know how to phrase this…”

“Where do I want him buried?”

Piper nodded again, her eyes wide.

Quinn sighed and then glanced in the direction of her old house.

* * *

Rain battered down on roof of the Red Rocket truck stop, water snaking its way through the decaying structure and pattering down onto the floor inside. Quinn sat on her bed, watching the puddle grow for a little while, before sighing and standing, sliding an old bucket over with her foot. The tinny sound of the leak hitting metal joined with the light shower that fell against the building, before both faded as the rain subsided.

Back on her bed again, Quinn stared up, nerves fluttering through her stomach. The concept of what was happening tomorrow was finally starting to hit her, and fear caressed her skin, making it prickle and shiver.

Her eyes fell upon the half-used jet inhaler Hancock had left behind, which, despite everything, made her crack a smile. Her friends. They’d insisted on doing all the work, telling her it wasn’t right for her to help. Quinn had relented, falling back to her one place of peace and quiet, waving away Piper’s offer of company. Even Codsworth had left her alone.

Dogmeat padded into the room, sniffing loudly as he stopped next to her bed, and then shook his coat. Quinn yelled, sitting up sharply as she was sprayed with water, and then toppled backwards onto the floor with a string of swearwords.

“Dogmeat!”

Dogmeat took this as an invitation and bounded over, jumping onto her lap, still damp from the rain. He ignored her shrieks and began to lick her face enthusiastically, his wagging tail banging against the metal frame of the bed.

“Is everything alright?” came a familiar voice.

Quinn shoved Dogmeat off her and pushed herself to her knees, to see Paladin Danse standing at the interior door, his power armour absent. It seemed he had learned his lesson from his previous struggles with the doorframe.

“Yeah, fine,” she said, getting to her feet and trying to wipe away the mud and dog hair now coating her uniform, to no avail. “What’s up?”

“I, well…” He straightened up, dragging his eyes away from Dogmeat, who had run over and started sniffing at his feet, and pointed to a bundle in his arm. “We found an old collection of holotapes in your house. I wanted to discuss what music you wanted for...for tomorrow.”

Quinn rubbed her forehead, wincing at the ache that lurked in the depths of her skull. Nothing came to mind, and trying to think of something only made it hurt worse. “All of that will be Nate’s music, so whatever you pick, I’m sure he would have liked it.”

“But-”

“Danse.” She smiled as she let her hand drop to her side. “I trust you. I trust your judgement.”

Danse paused and then nodded. He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “There was something else, too.” He set the bundle on the nearby cabinet and pushed the fabric aside, digging his hands through the pile of tapes until he pulled something completely different from the mass of plastic and metal.

In his hand was a bottle. Quinn didn’t have to look at the label to know what it was. The moment of Nate presenting it to her with a mischievous grin while she was pregnant was burned into her mind.

Bowmore scotch whisky, from the Isle of Islay.

Quinn’s knees buckled, and she fell to the floor with a bump. Danse clunked the bottle down so carelessly it nearly skidded off the cabinet, but he paid it no mind as he darted forward, crouching down next to her and taking hold of her shoulders.

“Are you alri-?” he began, but he never finished his sentence. Quinn grabbed Danse and yanked him into a hug, nearly pulling him on top of her as he wobbled unsteadily in her grip.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into his shoulder. _“Thank you.”_

Danse didn’t reply, but patted her awkwardly on the back, wincing as his legs started to cramp. Eventually she released him, sniffed, and wiped quickly at her eyes. Danse groaned as he stood, and then offered her a hand; Quinn took it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet.

Staring past him, she walked slowly over to the bottle of whisky and picked it up, cradling it with almost as much care as she had cradled her son. It was cool and smooth beneath her fingers, the last gift of Nate’s that she could still truly call her own.

“Where did you find it?” she said eventually, not taking her eyes off the bottle.

“Your old house. In a safe in the floor,” Danse replied. “Codsworth led us to it.”

“Codsworth?” She glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised. There was a pause, and then she started to laugh. “That fucking…”

Her laughter died in her throat, replaced by the bitter taste of reality.

“We liked to play pranks on each other.” Quinn sat on her bed, holding the whisky close to her chest. “After Shaun was born, and after Nate started to get better, we got some of the fun back in our marriage. He burnt the dinner one night, so I hid his screwdriver in his sock drawer where I knew he’d never look for it. Of course, he knew I was responsible, so he hid my bottle of Islay and refused to tell me where. Unfortunately for him, we’d just bought a Mr Handy to help with the day to day stuff in case Nate had another episode, and…well…”

“You reprogrammed Codsworth.”

“Did he tell you?” Quinn said with a sly grin.

Danse nodded, trying to look stern, before the smirk broke through. “He was...less than happy about it.”

“Nate wasn’t pleased either. Said it was a bad example for our son. I think he was just pissed he had to call a technician out to change the settings, because he couldn’t figure it out himself.”

Danse chuckled; the sound was odd to Quinn’s ears, but pleasant. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed hearing him laugh. She moved the bottle under the overhead light, admiring the amber sheen of the liquid within, and then made a decision.

“Do you want a drink with me?”

Danse froze.

“I…” His eyes fixed on the bottle, his body tensing so quickly, it was as if he had been turned to stone. For the briefest of moments, he seemed detached from the world around him, his being focused solely on the alcohol in her hands.

_He doesn’t want to refuse me,_ she thought. _But he doesn’t want this, either._

“Ah,” Quinn said quickly. “Don’t worry, I get it.”

His eyes snapped up to look at her. “You do?”

“Yeah.” She grinned. “I can tell. You’re not a whisky drinker, right?”

Relief rippled through Danse’s features, and he relaxed, smiling again. “Yes...I’m sorry. Whisky isn’t my poison. But if you want to drink it, don’t stop on my account.”

Quinn stood, opening a cupboard on the wall - inside was a collection of shot glasses, some purified water, and a bottle of cheap Irish whiskey. She ignored it and selected the cleanest looking glass, setting it down on the cabinet next to the holotapes.

There was a pause.

“I don’t know if I…” Quinn bit her lip. “It’s the last thing I have of him _from_ him. I just…”

“You’re wrong,” Danse replied, moving next to her as he shook his head. “You have your rings. You have the holotape he made for you. And you have your wedding photograph. Small things, but still things that tie him to you.” He hesitated, frowning a little. “I’m not trying to force you to open that bottle, but you said to me you never had the chance to drink it, and I sensed regret in those words. He bought that for you to enjoy, and here it is, despite everything you’ve gone through. Would he want it to sit on a shelf, never opened or tasted?”

Quinn shivered, staring at the label without reading it. She could feel Nate’s presence reaching across the centuries, guiding her hands as he whispered sweet reassurances to her.

_It’s okay._

_Go on._

Her fingers took on a life of their own, pulling at the seal around the top, shedding its soft, metal skin before cracking open the lid. She raised the bottle to her face and sniffed, the smell of light, fragrant smoke with a hint of nectarine making her eyes water with delight.

_Quality._

Eighteen years matured. Quinn quivered with anticipation. She screwed the lid back on and set the whisky down safely, before returning to the cupboard and pulling out the bottle of purified water. She opened it and dipped her fingers in it, before holding her hand over the shot glass, allowing the water to drip inside. Setting the bottle down, she picked up her glass and swilled the minute amount of water around so that it coated the bottom.

“What are you doing?” Danse asked, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy.

“Always add a small amount of water to scotch whisky,” Quinn said, eyeing up the glass carefully. “Or any whisky, really. It brings out the flavour.”

She put the glass down and picked up the Bowmore again, opening it and pouring it with a practiced, steady hand. Not a single drop wasted.

“Normally I’d use a proper whisky glass, but…” Quinn shrugged, gesturing vaguely to her surroundings. There was no room to be picky in the wasteland. She picked up her drink, pausing once again to take in the potent scent of burning herbs and traces of fruit, and then sipped.

An electric shock raced through her taste buds, and she shut her eyes, savouring the moment, running the spirit over her tongue as she clung to the edge of bliss.

She had heard of the peaty nature of Bowmore, but nothing she had been told could prepare her for the real thing. Rich and strong, the peat and smoke mixed together, supporting the softer floral notes, wrapped around a prickly centre. Quinn swallowed, the aftertaste sweet and woody, gently burning her mouth and throat as it slid down to her core.

It was like nothing she had ever tasted before, and she realised with a twinge of sadness, when the bottle was finished, she would never experience it again.

Quinn slowly worked her way through the glass, keeping her eyes firmly shut, blocking out all other senses but taste and smell, until eventually she reached the bottom. Not caring for dignity, she threw her head back, tilting every last drop into her waiting mouth, and then opened her eyes.

Danse was watching her, his expression odd. Soft. Warm.

He smiled at her. “Good?”

Quinn nodded, not wanting to speak just yet. She needed to hold onto this, just for a little while longer. As she moved forward and set her glass down, her foot caught on something, causing her to stumble. Quinn glanced at the floor and saw her rifle poking out from under the bed. Remembering the terrible state it was in, she picked up the battered gun and dusted it down. The exterior was badly dented, and some of the parts felt stiff and sticky.

“Piece of shit needs work,” she muttered to herself, before sighing and strolling over to her workbench. She laid the gun down and stroked her chin as she tried to decide where to start.

Her hand drifted over to the nearby toolbox, and it creaked as Quinn opened it; she selected a small screwdriver before beginning her work. It had been Nate’s, one of the few things that had actually survived, though the plastic handle had partially melted and the metal was patched with rust. She grumbled as she pulled at the stock, but it was so warped by wear and tear that it was jammed in place.

Danse, who had been slowly edging forward, apparently intrigued by her tinkering, gave a slight cough. “Want me to-?”

Quinn shoved the rifle into his hands before he could finish.

He grinned and set it back onto the workbench, before rooting through the toolbox.

Although Danse lacked the flow of Arlen Glass, watching him work was an education in itself. His hands deftly moved over the weapon, dismantling it with ease as he laid out each component in a neat row to the side. The tools he used also lined up perfectly beneath his fingers, like a little row of metal soldiers. He laboured slowly and carefully, pausing before every action, considering his every move before he made it. Quinn found herself mesmerised by his precise and fussy mannerisms, so different from Nate’s organised chaos.

When he began cleaning each individual part, Quinn stepped in to help. They didn’t speak as they worked, content in the silence and fully focused on the task, passing parts and pieces between themselves without exchanging a single word. Even Dogmeat sniffing at their feet for attention didn't distract them, and he finally padded away, whining.

Comfort washed over Quinn, and she was barely aware of the way their elbows knocked together while they concentrated on their own separate jobs, or how their hands touched when they traded equipment. She felt secure and at ease, like being with Danse was the most natural thing in the world.

The spell was only broken when he put the last piece of the rifle back in place and handed it to her, whole and almost gleaming, the love and care he had invested in her weapon as clear as the scars on his face.

“We’re even now, I think,” he said, smiling to show he was teasing.

Quinn nodded, grinning back as she held the gun close to her chest. It all felt so important somehow, though she couldn’t understand why. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused and then yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I think I should let you sleep. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“You haven’t taken up anything. I wanted you to be here.”

There was a pause, and a slight flush crept across Danse’s cheeks, though he looked pleased.

“I’ll remember that,” he replied. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

With a nod, he left, and Quinn sighed, the room suddenly feeling large and empty. Her steps were heavy with tiredness as she dragged herself over to the cabinet, setting her rifle down on it and then picking up the whisky. Nate’s face flickered through her mind, the image of his wicked grin as he handed his pregnant wife the coveted bottle as clear as day. Then it disappeared, replaced by Danse’s own features, apprehensive at first, but then softening as she’d taken her first taste.

Wearing a small smile, Quinn carefully put the whisky away.

* * *

The night air was crisp and cool, sending shivers through Danse as he stepped outside into its embrace. He barely noticed it, his heart thundering away as he marched back towards Sanctuary, a slight spring in his step as Quinn’s words played over and over in his head.

_I wanted you to be here._

She didn’t resent him. She didn’t hate him for taking it all out of her hands. She _wanted_ to be around him.

The bounce in Danse’s walk slowly faded away, however, as he approached the settlement. While he was glad the whisky had cheered Quinn up a little, there had been another motive for his visit.

In the distance burned a campfire, a crumpled mass of dirty fabric a foot away from it. From underneath the material poked a pair of feet wearing standard issue Vault-Tec boots. It had quickly become apparent when they removed Nate from the vault that he would not thaw out in time before the funeral. The next best option had been to speed up the process with fire, whilst making sure not to overheat the body. The thought alone disgusted Danse, and he quickly pushed it out of his mind as he walked around the back of Quinn’s old house.

The grave in the centre of the back yard was surrounded by lanterns, giving the entire scene an eerie, morbid glow. As he arrived, Hancock was clambering out of the pit, panting as Preston helped him up.

“Christ, the ghoul muttered, shaking his head at the large mound of dirt they had shovelled. “That was hard going.” He turned to Danse. “How is she?”

Danse shrugged. “As well as she can be. I kept her distracted, at least. She’s settling down for the night.”

“Good.” Hancock glanced at the hole in the earth, and then over his shoulder in the direction of Nate’s body. “This is the last thing she should see.”

Danse nodded. “Anything else need doing?”

“We’re gonna move Nate in a bit. Figure he’s defrosted enough by now.”

“I’ll do it.” Danse strode past them towards the fire before they could answer, the rolling warmth of the fire doing little to quell the chills that were pulsing through his body.

Death was nothing new to him. It was a simple fact of life in the wasteland, and even more so in the Brotherhood. And yet something about _this_ death felt different in a way that made him uneasy. It was a death that had been delayed, the grief and the healing paused, encased in ice and shut away from the world.

They were releasing it.

Danse reached Nate’s body and crouched down, pulling back the sheet. He had finally gone limp, no longer locked in place, his eyes now closed. As Danse reached out to pick him up, a sudden shiver shot up his spine, and he hesitated, his stomach clenching.

He didn’t want to touch him. Revulsion gripped at him, the unfamiliar sensation of fear prickling through his skin. This was just like-

_Cutler, lying crumpled on the ground, his face turned away as-_

“Hey.”

Danse jumped, snapping out of his vision, and looked up to see Sturges stood over him, grinning.

His grin faltered as his eyes met Danse’s. “You okay?”

Danse didn’t answer, glancing back down at the body on the floor. The man lying there was tall and lanky, wearing a Vault-Tec jumpsuit. He was Nate. Not Cutler.

_Nate._

“Yes,” Danse replied, keeping his gaze fixed firmly to the ground. “I’ve been told to move him. Where do you want him?”

He could feel Sturges’ frown burning into the back of his head, but thankfully, the engineer didn’t comment.

“Over by my workshop,” Sturges said after a short silence. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love, and thank you to my beta, waiting4morning, for the amazing help!
> 
> I did research on whisky, and Scotch whisky is spelt without the second ‘e’, and Irish whiskey is spelt with it. So that’s why it’s spelt in two different ways in this chapter!
> 
> Just a reminder that next weekend I will be away, so the chapter could be late or early, all things depending.


	29. At Last

It was happening. It was really happening.

Quinn stood in the ruins of her old back yard, watching as a coffin made its slow journey towards her, draped in a pristine, if somewhat creased, American flag.

Faces peered curiously from the houses around the settlement, but they kept out of the way, lurking in the shadows as the procession from centuries past worked its way through the battered street, the usual rubble and litter cleared away. At the front, balancing the coffin on their shoulders stood Preston and Nick; at the back, Piper and Hancock. Two Minutemen Quinn didn’t know helped support the middle.

She had visited Nate that morning after he had been laid out in his coffin. Sturges had done a good job, not just in the structure, but in the finer details. It had been sanded, with design and shape carved into the wood, before being given a finishing gloss coat. He could have just constructed a simple box, but instead Sturges had taken the limited resources given to him and made miracles. Quinn had hugged him as soon as she had laid eyes on it.

Nate, though...it had been a bittersweet meeting. Their last meeting. A large part of her was glad that he was no longer stuck in that awful, frozen position. Another side of her, a more selfish piece of her being, wished he could remain like that forever. He was getting the burial he deserved, the burial she wanted him to have...but at the same time, Quinn knew she would never see him face to face again.

There had been a moment where she had considered giving him everything. Both of their rings, the tape he had made for her, their wedding photograph...something to stay with him. Eventually, though, Quinn had decided against it. It was like Danse had said: Nate would have wanted her to keep such trinkets, for her to cherish. He had gone on to a place where he would no longer need them.

The coffin was drawing closer now, and the disconnect increased. Quinn knew Nate was inside - she had _seen_ him in there. And still it was hard to believe the coffin was anything but an empty box.

One thing that surprised her more than anything was the way her friends moved. They stepped in unison, their feet hitting the ground at the exact same time with a sharp tap as they marched up to where the burial site lay. Someone had obviously trained them up for this moment. She glanced over at Danse, who was standing at attention with a line of Minutemen in the cleared out back yard of next door.

Would her friends have listened to Danse?

All her meandering thoughts were driven away as the coffin reached her. The carriers carefully placed it on the contraption Sturges had set up around the grave, before picking up the flag and holding up at chest height, tight and flat. Without thinking, Quinn blindly groped to her side, grabbing hold of Sturges’ hand and clinging at it. He threw her a sharp glance of surprise, and then after a moment, gave her fingers a little squeeze.

A hush fell over the congregation, and an older man dressed in shabby, handmade pastor clothes stepped forward. She recognised him as Pastor Clements from Diamond City, and saw he was holding a dark blue book with peeling gold letters. Though most of the words on the cover were intelligible, the word ‘Bible’ stood out, clear and bold. Quinn’s stomach turned. How had they known Nate had been religious? Had she told one of them and forgotten?

Pastor Clements flipped open the Bible, scanned it, and then looked up at Quinn and smiled. She tried to return it, but her lips had gone numb, her body trembling with nerves and dread. He didn’t seem to mind, his kind expression not so much as faltering before he spoke.

“Welcome all,” his voice as rich and warm as mulled wine in winter.

Quinn heard nothing else. His words washed straight over her as she stared, transfixed at the coffin. Her husband was in there. What would he have thought of this? Had he imagined this was how his funeral would be, pieced together from the wreckage of the world, two hundred years in the future?

She hoped at least that he would approve. Quinn had never been one for religion herself, but Nate had been a staunch Catholic. His faith had flickered somewhat after he had returned home from the military, and he’d never set foot in a church after he’d been discharged, but she thought he had still believed, in his own way.

Once or twice, Quinn tried to focus in on what Pastor Clements was saying, but found herself unable to focus. Guilt prickled within her. They had all worked so hard to make this happen, and she couldn’t even listen. Not only was it disrespectful to them, but it was disrespectful to Nate.

Nate. In the coffin, feet away from her.

Quinn felt herself sway, and Sturges’ other arm shot up, steadying her.

“I got’cha,” he murmured.

Quinn didn’t respond.

After a while, the talk ended, and a thin silence filled its place. She continued to stare at the coffin, wishing it was all over, knowing that it wasn’t, when something in the distance caught her eye. Glancing up, Quinn saw that Danse and the remaining Minutemen had begun their part, and the sheer precision made her breath catch in her throat.

“Ready!” barked Danse, the authoritative snap in his voice making her and Pastor Clements jump. The line turned and raised their weapons in one fluid motion.

“Aim!”

The barrels pointed up to the sky, all the same height, all perfectly still, the men and women holding them stood in place like statues.

“Fire!”

There was a single, deafening crack, and the line brought their rifles down and reloaded, their actions amplified by their synchronisation.

“Ready!”

And so it went on, the group, led by Danse, firing into the air until three volleys had been completed. When it had finished, they stood down, their rifle butts buried into the ground, once more stood to attention, waiting.

_Waiting for what?_

Quinn thought she knew. She had been to a military funeral once before, when Crofts had been put to rest. Seconds later, Codsworth floated near to the grave, and she was proven right. The bugle began to play, so heart-breakingly beautiful. The image of Nate, making the journey all the way to the Arlington National Cemetery to play this exact tape on the anniversary of Crofts’ death, streaked through her mind, and her knees buckled.

“Woah!” Sturges’ exclaimed, managing to keep hold of her before she fell. With a grunt, he pulled her upright and leaned her against him as he looped his arm under hers. The heads of her friends turned to look at her, concern written across each face.

“I’m fine,” she heard herself say. “Carry on. Carry on.”

Uncertainty flickered through the crowd, but they stayed in their places, those holding the flag throwing her the occasional glance. Danse and his rifle party, however, remained still until the last note faded into silence.

In one sharp motion, Danse passed his rifle to woman next to him, and she accepted it with the same crispness, before the paladin turned on his heel and marched towards the grave site.

With his clean, shaved face and his armour buffed to a high shine, Danse almost looked like an entirely different person. His years in the Brotherhood had clearly paid off - in that moment, Quinn felt as though he could say anything and they would all listen. She knew it now without a doubt: Danse had been the one to organise the funeral. It _had_ to be him. No one else could have laid it all out with such meticulous precision.

He stopped at the head of the grave, stood to attention, and then gave Piper a nod. She tugged her corner of the flag, and all at once, the folding began.

Quinn had never seen a true flag folding before, and any other time, she would have watched with great interest. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the coffin once more. It was almost over. Nate would be gone forever. Her legs began to tremble again, and Sturges shifted his grip, keeping her steady.

“Just hang on,” he whispered into her ear, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re doing great.”

Quinn nodded, her throat tight, and stared determinedly at the floor, leaning her weight against the engineer. All she could hear was the slight scuffling noises of folding fabric. When she forced herself to look up again, the flag was in a neat triangle, held by Preston. He turned to Danse and handed over the compressed mass of fabric, his movement lacking the cutting quality of the paladin. Preston saluted, and Danse returned the gesture; the whole thing looked wrong to her, but she couldn’t figure out why. Quinn’s thoughts were cut short at Danse marched over to her, his armour making a series of dull thuds in the wasted earth.

Quinn met his eye as he stopped in front of her, and at once recognised his expression.

_He’s nervous_.

However, when he spoke, his voice held the steadiness of a speech well-rehearsed.

“On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honourable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation.”

He offered out the flag, and Quinn took it; it felt heavy in her hands. Final.

Danse saluted her, and she finally realised what was wrong. He was using a pre-war salute, not the Brotherhood’s.

Letting Sturges prop her up, Quinn brought her fist to her chest, giving the salute the paladin deserved. There was a moment of silence, Danse blinking at her, apparently forgetting himself, and then Sturges coughed.

“Danse,” he said, tilting his head towards Quinn. “I need to...the coffin. Can you hold her?”

For the briefest of seconds, Danse’s composure seemed to crack, his eyes flicking to Quinn as his brow furrowed with apprehension. But then it passed, and he nodded, taking Sturges place and holding Quinn up with ease as the engineer walked over to the grave and began to fiddle with a tangle of circuitry next to the stand that held up the coffin. There was a click, and a section of the stand started to move, lowering the coffin slowly into the grave.

Quinn clung to Danse. She didn’t know what else to do. The entire experience was surreal, a stabbing pain in her chest mixed with relief as Nate’s container disappeared into the black of the pit. The cold metal of Danse’s armour began to warm beneath her skin, and she leaned her head against him, ignoring the prickling of guilt in her stomach.

Still, there were no tears. Quinn had expected to be crying throughout, but so far there had been nothing. Once again, the emptiness had returned.

_Clunk_

The coffin had reached the bottom. Her friends all looked at each other and nodded, before turning to Quinn.

“Kid, we need to…”

She knew what they were going to say. No. If there was one last thing she could do for Nate, this would be it.

“I’ll bury him,” she said, her legs finding their strength again as she shook Danse off.

“Quinn…” Piper began, taking a step towards her.

“Thank you,” Quinn said, forcing a smile as she looked at each of them in turn. “Thank you for what you’ve done today. I can’t express enough how much this means, but...this is something I need to do. Please don’t take this away from me.”

Another pause.

Piper fidgeted, but Nick and Preston were watching Hancock, who was trembling on the spot, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face as his eyes darted from side to side. Quinn dragged her attention from him and focused on Nick, fixing him with a hard gaze until he looked at her and nodded with a sigh.

“Come on,” said Nick. “We’ve done our part.”

He walked past her, clapping his hand on her shoulder as he left. The others glanced at each other, looking like they wanted to argue, but then relented and then followed suit. They murmured their condolences each in turn, and Piper led Hancock away by the arm. Danse signalled to the rifle party, and they turned in formation and marched away, each step a sharp click of sound. However, Danse himself did not move, instead looking back at Quinn and frowning.

“Are you alright?” he asked, after a slight hesitation.

“Yes.” That was a lie, but a necessary one. She didn’t want to worry him. Hugging the flag close to her chest, she twitched her lips into a small smile. “Where did you put Nate’s tapes?”

“In the house, back in the safe. It’s not locked, though.”

Quinn nodded. “Show me.”

Minutes later, she stood in the corner of her living room, staring down at a safe she had never known existed inside her own house. That damn _infuriating_ man. She grinned to herself, the familiar pangs of loss mixing with amusement at Nate’s mischief. It was just so typically _him._

Reaching into the safe, she took out a few select tapes, and put the flag in their place.

“For safe keeping,” she explained to Danse, shutting the safe on its protruding lock, keeping the door wedged open. “I don’t want it to get dirty.”

“There’s a case, if you…”

“Yes. That would be wonderful.” There was an awkward silence, and Quinn realised she couldn’t keep up the facade anymore. “Can you send Codsworth back to me, please?”

Before Danse could answer, she strode out of the side door of the house, making her way towards Nate, picking up one of the shovels left behind as she went. Quinn knew she was being ungrateful, but she had reached her limit. The needles of guilt had turned into waves, threatening to drown her as she stood over the grave.

“Miss Quinn?”

Quinn jumped at Codsworth voice, taking a deep, settling breath as he floated over to her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, mum!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to startle you!”

“No, it’s fine. I just wanted some company while I…” She gestured to the grave, and then pulled one of the tapes out of her pocket. “Can you play this while I work?”

“Of course, mum!” He revolved on the spot, the port on his back popping open, and continued to talk while Quinn switched the tapes. “If you don’t mind me saying, mum, I think this was a fitting farewell to Master Nate. I believe he would have been pleased.”

“Me too,” Quinn replied, her voice breaking slightly. “The others...they did well.”

“Indeed!”

The tape port closed with a click, and the usual whirring began as the tape loaded. There was a crackle, and then the song returned, every note and syllable burning her. Their final dance would be a bittersweet one.

_“At last, my love has come along.”_

She could almost feel him, his strong warm arms around her, the smell of beer on his breath as they swayed slowly on the spot, her head resting where his neck met his shoulder. She had known that night he was special, that he was something good and pure.

“Mum, are you...?”

Quinn jerked back to the present, his touch leaving her as she stood at the edge of the pit he now lay in, the slight breeze in the air clinging to the wet that now streaked down her cheeks.

_Ah,_ she thought dully. _There we go._

Her vision blurred, but then she wiped her eyes, glancing at the huge pile of dirt that towered over her. She tightened her grip on the shovel, taking deep breaths, willing herself to complete the last step.

_Just one more push. One more trial._

_You can do it._

With a grunt, Quinn thrust the shovel deep into the earth. It was the first of many, the flat, metal blade consuming the loose soil while the worn wooden handle rubbed against her skin. Splinters nestled into her flesh as the layers were stripped away by the labour, and blisters slowly rose with the work, only to split and weep, covering her hands with a stinging, sticky film. More blisters bubbled up from the mess, before bursting again, and slowly the shovel’s handle became smeared with blood as her palms and fingers were rubbed raw.

Quinn didn’t care.

The sweat was pouring from her, until she had pulled her jumpsuit down to her waist, her white undervest soaked through, her hair saturated with it. Her neck and shoulders reddened as the fierce wasteland sun beat down upon her, and her brain fuzzed as the song - their song - played on loop, until she was tired of the sound of it.

Quinn didn’t care.

This procedure, this... _ritual -_ it had to be completed. She _had_ to do it. A deep, sickening fear lurked within her, crooning and clawing at her insides, just waiting for her to pause, to weaken for even just a moment. Quinn gritted her teeth and worked faster, ignoring the burning pain in her hands, and the dizziness as the heat increased. She ignored Preston when he had tried to bring her water, ignored Nick when he had ordered her to stop and rest.

He hadn’t argued with her. Maybe it was the look she had given him. Or maybe it was the crazed behaviour paired with the shovel in her hands. Either way, he had left, saying words to Piper, words that blurred and smudged in her head so that they made no sense.

Quinn did not _care._

Only when the last clod of earth had been patted in place, only when Nate was well and truly sealed away, did she stop. She swayed on the spot, staring down at the mound of dirt, the only barrier she had left. The shovel fell to the floor with a thud, and Quinn followed shortly afterwards. She stared up at the ashy-blue sky, barely aware of Nick and Piper swooping down upon her. Between them, they pulled her up, and helped her walk towards the house.

Her head was hurting. Her muscles were aching. Her hands were on fire. Quinn glanced back at the grave.

_At last._

* * *

Danse stared out onto the horizon, feeling a rough blend of exhaustion and numbness. Still, it wasn’t like he usually had the time to watch the day fall from grace. The colours of the sun were one of the few things outside of the oppressive grip of the wasteland. The ground glowed orange, deep shadows breaking up the landscape as the sky added splashes of pink and gold to its palette.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the funeral.

Aside from a slip up with Hancock, it had gone well. _More_ than well. But still, nerves lingered within him, keeping him firmly on edge as he patrolled Sanctuary.

_Quinn._

Her reaction had been what he expected, grief mingled with stubborn determination. Danse had not been surprised that she’d wanted to bury Nate herself. No, that wasn’t why he was bothered. It had been her attitude towards him that was concerning, like she couldn’t bear to be near him any longer than she had to. He’d done everything he could, gone over every possible detail, taking _everything_ into consideration, and yet somehow he had _still_ managed to upset her.

Danse sighed. No matter what he did, whether it was for Quinn, or for his team, or even for the Brotherhood, it was never good enough. He was never _good enough._

“Hey.”

Danse turned and saw the ghoul walking towards him, and felt anger shoot through him. He was not in the mood for this.

“Go away,” he said, glaring.

“Aw, and there was me thinking we’d made some progress,” Hancock said with a grin, the tell-tale signs of jet consumption written all over his ravaged face. When Danse’s scowl deepened, though, the ghoul’s smile faltered. He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“You know damn well _what,”_ Danse snarled.

At the burial, there had been a heart stopping when Hancock had almost dropped the flag. His hands had been shaking so badly, he could barely fold it, and only managed to complete the task with the quick thinking of the Minuteman next to him. Thankfully, Quinn hadn’t noticed, but everyone else had.

“I saw your hands shaking,” Danse went on. “If it hadn’t been for Crowcroft, you would have ruined everything. All that hard work, all that effort for Quinn nearly _squandered_ because you couldn’t wait for a fix until afterwards.” His lip curled up into a sneer. “Just another _junkie.”_

He had expected Hancock to argue, but far from engaging in a fight, the ghoul gave a half-hearted shrug, his eyes unfocused and a grin on his face, despite the severity of the accusations. Annoyance spiked within Danse.

“Pretty much,” said Hancock, dropping down onto the floor with a bump and pulling a fresh jet inhaler from his pocket.

Danse stared, completely taken back by the lack of fight. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Hancock laid on his back, jammed the jet inhaler in his mouth, and shut his eyes, humming. Then he suddenly sat up, eyes wide open. Danse stepped back, raising his rifle slightly as his body tensed.

However, Hancock simply coughed and took another hit, before looking up at Danse, apparently unconcerned with the gun now pointed at him. “I tried to do today sober. That’s what was wrong.”

Danse nearly dropped his rifle in shock. His surprise must have shown on his face, because the ghoul laughed.

“Yeah, I know, right? Fucking crazy of me. I’m an addict, through and through. And I _like_ being an addict. Makes things...interesting. But I dunno.” He shrugged, staring down at his jet inhaler. “Somehow, being high for this didn’t feel...right. Not that Quinn would have minded, but considering how much you were putting into the whole thing…”

His voice trailed off, and he returned to his jet.

The ghoul was right, of course. Quinn had an irritating tolerance of the ghoul’s chem taking habits that Danse simply could not understand. And yet…

“You’re giving them up then?”

Hancock cackled, pulling the inhaler out of his mouth. “Does this look like giving up to you? Hell no! I fucking _love_ chems. Ain’t no force in the wasteland that could convince me to give up these delicious trips. Besides...” He grinned. “Today proved I’m better off high as shit. It’s just who I am.”

Danse turned away, looking out towards the sunset, only to find that it had gone. He gritted his teeth and threw a nasty look at the ghoul. “Go away.”

“Yeah yeah.” Hancock struggled to his feet and stood next to Danse, staring out onto the horizon. “While I’m here, though...I mean, we both live to piss in each other’s sugar bombs, but credit where it’s due - good job with today. Even with my fuck up, it was a good send off. Don’t think we could have made it half as classy without you.”

“She could barely look at me,” Danse heard himself say before he stop his mouth. He flushed, but Hancock gave him an uncharacteristically serious look.

“Tin can,” he said, tossing away the empty jet inhaler and folding his arms, “you just gave her the last wish she had for her husband.” He paused. “And I guessed we helped. But everyone knows you did all the legwork. I mean, fuck, I’m not gonna get anyone marching like _that_ anytime soon.” He paused again, considering it, before shaking his head. _“Anyway,_ point is, you did a good thing for her. Just give her time, alright?”

Danse’s cheeks were burning again and he was thankful it was getting dark. The last thing he wanted was advice from a _ghoul._ And yet it was a slight comfort, all the same.

“Alright,” he said finally.

“Alright,” Hancock repeated, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Now go get some damn sleep already; I’ll take over the night patrol. And it’s not just me here, so you don’t have to worry about a ghoul watching your back.” He grinned again to show he was joking, and Danse chuckled.

The noise surprised them both, and they stared at each other, the silence between them growing increasingly uncomfortable. Deciding a tactical retreat was the best option, Danse stomped away without another word; running into Quinn was preferable to remaining here.

It was only when he had made his way towards the outer edge of the settlement, that he heard Hancock yell, _“You’re welcome!”_

To his utmost annoyance, he laughed again, and feeling of great frustration washed over him.

Damn ghoul. The sooner he was back on the Prydwen, the better.

Shaking his head, Danse stomped across Sanctuary, barely aware of the greetings the other settlers gave him. He mumbled his responses, a dull throbbing growing in his forehead, and kept his eyes fixed on the goal ahead. The house he set up in was not too far away now.

However, as he walked past Sturges’ workshop, light blazing from the windows, he caught sight of a scene that made him stop in his tracks.

Quinn was sat on the workbench, staring blankly ahead as Piper stood in front of her, carefully dabbing at her hands. Danse’s breath caught in his throat. Her skin was red raw, the palms and inside of her fingers bloody and weeping.

“Blue,” Piper said, her exasperated tone tinged with concern. “Why didn’t you ask us to help you? You better hope this doesn’t get infected.”

Quinn shrugged.

“Don’t you shrug at me! Someone’s gotta look after you, you clot.”

“...Thank you.”

Piper smiled. “Don’t mention it. Now, I think we have some clean bandages somewhere…”

Danse walked on. That conversation was not for him. He felt strangely disconnected from the people around him, the area a haze of tiredness. What had he expected after the funeral? For her to be angry at him? For her to be grateful?

Certainly not this sudden distance. It had become quickly apparent that she had wanted to be away from him the second he had shown her the tapes, and Danse couldn’t help but feel stung. He didn’t blame her, but it would have been better for her to have been decidedly angry, rather than putting him in a state of limbo.

_Give her time._

His temper flared up. What did that freak know about it? Nothing.

Danse hoped otherwise.

Blessed isolation greeted him as he stepped inside the house on the outskirts of the settlement, the still solitude a sweetness he was unable to describe. Danse stepped out of his armour, positioning it so it shielded his bed from the door, and then pulled the combat knife out of its sheath, sliding it into his boot, before stashing his rifle in the corner, out of sight.

His body had gone as far as it could. Not caring what dreams he would face tonight, not even caring that his location was insecure, Danse collapsed onto the bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

* * *

**_ 2279 _ **

“Danse! Hey, Danse!”

Danse turned around as he and Cutler walked across the training yard of the Citadel, their arms full of ammunition, to spot a small, wiry figure in the distance, something rectangular in his hands.

“It’s your newest fan,” Cutler muttered with a nudge in Danse’s side, right where he was ticklish. Danse jumped, nearly dropping the equipment he held, and shot Cutler an ugly look, who grinned mischievously back.

Arthur Maxson, twelve years old and still ever much the boy he was when Danse had first spoken to him, was sprinting towards them, waving wildly as a harassed looking scribe ran after him, flailing his arms and puffing.

“Hello, Arthur,” Danse said, smiling as the child approached. “How was your time on the field?”

“Maxson, sir!” huffed the scribe, finally catching up with them. “You’re not supposed to be here alone! Not after...not after…” He stopped, wheezing, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Raiders attacked us,” Arthur said nonchalantly, with a shrug. Danse noticed the book he was clinging to, but paid it little attention as the boy went on. “Nearly took out the squad I was with, but I killed ‘em.”

_“You_ killed them?” Danse said incredulously, his mouth falling open. Arthur grinned, seemingly pleased by his surprise.

“Maxson, sir!” the scribe tried again, but Danse cut him off.

“Scribe, does he really need to be coddled by you when he’s just saved the lives of the team that was supposed to be protecting _him?”_

“I, but I,” spluttered the scribe. “But Elder Lyons wants to see him!”

“Oh, Sarah wants me?” Arthur piped up. “Why didn’t you say so?” He turned back to Danse, his grin widening as he thrust the book into Danse’s arms, spilling some of the ammunition he was carrying. “I got you a present. Since I’m going out with my own teams now, you don’t have to find books for me anymore. So I thought I’d return the favour, just this once.”

“Sir, they’re not _your_ teams-”

“Like Knight-Sergeant Danse said, I just saved them. Guess that makes them mine now.” He shot Danse a sly smirk and then ran off again, leaving the scribe groaning and cursing as he bumbled away after him.

Cutler peered over Danse’s shoulder.

_“The Tales of King Arthur?”_ he said, raising an eyebrow. “Seems appropriate for the kid’s swelling ego, at least. You better hope that scribe’s not in charge of the next duty roster, with the shit you just gave him.”

“Mm,” replied Danse, not listening. He was staring down at the book, its cover a deep, rich red and embossed with silver letters that spelled out its title. He’d heard of King Arthur before, but that was as far as his knowledge went. Myths weren’t usually to his taste - he much preferred history. Still, it was a gift. He would read it tonight, if he didn’t fall asleep first.

“Oi, Danse. You listening to me? Don’t make me poke you in the ribs.”

“Do that and I will stand on your foot.”

“Might be worth a broken toe just to hear you make that undignified noise again. Sounds like a molerat being sat-”

Danse stood on Cutler’s foot.

He glanced towards his friend, grinning, only to be met with a snarling, lipless face as a large pair of greenish-yellow hands fastened around his neck.

* * *

_Cutler._

Danse gasped as he woke, turning so violently he toppled out of the bed with a thump. Fighting his disorientation, he dragged himself across the floor as he collected his thoughts. He was at Sanctuary. Cutler was dead. He could breathe.

_I can breathe._

Danse propped himself up against the wall of the house, his chest rising and falling in great heaves as his heart battered against his ribcage. It was a few more seconds before he realised someone was standing in the doorway.

His hand flew to his boot as he struggled to stand, but then the visitor stepped forward, and Danse let himself slide back down to the floor as he croaked, “Quinn?”

Quinn didn’t move, the empty space between them feeling more like a ravine than a room. Normally she would rush to help. Now she simply stood and watched him panting on the floor, her heavily bandaged hands clamped together at her breastbone.

Danse didn’t blame her. He was a mess. He looked away, the old sensation of shame creeping back.

“Piper told me everything,” she said.

Now _that_ got his attention. Danse felt himself freeze. What had she told her? The incident with Hancock in Boston? The Cabot girl? The private conversation he’d had with Piper? She had swore not to tell. She had-

“About the funeral,” Quinn went on. “She said it had been your idea. That you’d organised nearly all of it. That-”

Danse groaned. If anything, this was worse. He didn’t want praise for it. He didn’t want her feeling indebted to him. It had all been for her, not for his ego. Rubbing his forehead, Danse met her eye and said, “Piper is overselling it. I had a lot of help, and without them, I wouldn’t have known how to find half of-”

“The drills,” Quinn said, raising her voice as she talked over him. “The gun salute. The flag folding. The practice you supervised. The practice you put in yourself. The-”

“The others-”

“Piper said you haven’t been sleeping again.”

_God damn it._

“I’m in an unfamiliar, insecure location,” Danse said coolly, getting to his feet. “I rarely sleep well on the field.”

_“Bullshit.”_

Ah, that fire. He’d missed it. A small smile played across his lips and Quinn scowled, before sighing.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” she said, looking very small and uncertain of herself. “I just came here to apologise.”

“For what?” Danse frowned, confused.

“For the way I’ve been treating you all this time.” Her head was bowed now, her hair hiding her face as she spoke to the floor. “I’ve been…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Danse interrupted, and her head snapped up, her eyes glittering in the darkness.

“It does matter,” she said sharply, the flames returning. “Don’t ever say that. It _does_ matter.”

“Quinn-”

“I’ve been treating you like shit for months!” She began to pace up and down, shaking her head as she gestured wildly. “Taking things out on you. Talking down to you, yelling at you, disregarding all the advice you tried to give me, putting you in danger, and when you told me…” Quinn halted, putting a hand to her face and cringing. “Oh my God, when you told me you were leaving the Prydwen...”

Danse strode over to and took her by the shoulders, giving her a slight shake, as he said gently, “Quinn, I lied to you, remember? I think that makes us even.”

She laughed at this, and Danse felt his stomach clench.

“What?”

“Just,” she giggled again and then cleared her throat. “Just you. You didn’t tell me the truth for a good reason, and yet you’re still trying to say sorry for it. You’re just so damn _honest.”_

Danse’s heart was racing again, for entirely different reasons. There was a soft look on her face as she gazed up at him, smiling, her giggles now forgotten. He became very aware that his hands were still on her shoulders.

_You’ve just buried her husband. Let go._

He didn’t move.

The smile faded, and she stared intently at him. “I mean it, Danse. I’m sorry for how I’ve been. I’m sorry for what I’ve said and done to you.”

“It doesn’t-”

_“Don’t.”_ Her tone was forceful, but not unkind. “Don’t say that. It matters. _You_ matter.”

_Let go of her, damn it._

Quinn’s arms slipped around his middle, and she hugged him tight, burying her face into his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled by his uniform. “Thank you for everything.”

For a moment Danse stood rooted to the spot, while his brain tried to catch up with the situation. After a few moments, he relaxed, allowing himself to savour her touch, her body warm against his. Without thinking, he closed his eyes as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, his thumbs drawing light circles in her back.

How long they remained like that, Danse didn’t know. It could have been seconds, or even hours for all he cared. All he knew was the next moment, Quinn had wrenched herself free, her bandaged hand clamped over the spot where Nate’s wedding ring lurked beneath her uniform. She stared at him now, wide-eyed and confused, traces of upset woven into her features.

“I better go,” she said, biting her lip as her eyebrows knitted together into a deep frown. “Get some sleep. I don’t intend to linger here tomorrow.”

Quinn backed away, hurrying towards the door, but paused as she reached it and turned to look at him. She was smiling, but she also seemed closed to tears, and her words were strained as she said, “You’re getting better at hugging.”

Danse shrugged, feeling muddled. “You’ve given me some practice.”

Quinn laughed, and her grip relaxed somewhat on the hidden wedding ring. “Goodnight, Danse.”

“Goodnight, Quinn.”

She left.

With a long sigh, Danse shuffled back to his bed and dropped onto it, knowing full well sleep was beyond him now. He let his mind drift back to their embrace, but realised he was too worn out to recreate it properly. It felt hollow, a weak imitation of something so small and yet so comforting.

Rolling onto his side, Danse bit back a swear word as he rubbed his forehead.

_“Just give her time.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not really responding to comments this week. Been busy with work and life in general. Usual thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning! And thanks to hokuto-ju-no-ken on tumblr for help with military funeral research.
> 
> Next week is gonna be another 'might be late' chapter due to beta difficulties and such.
> 
> I usually listen to music that fits the mood while I write, but for some weird reason, I listened to:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTIIMJ9tUc8
> 
> while writing the funeral scene. I have no idea why??


	30. Bona Fides

Carson strolled over just as the class finished, standing on the outskirts of the area while Rachel Marguerie lurked behind him. They both watched with mild interest as the children packed away their pencils and Michelle Cooper fussed over the pre-war textbooks that Quinn had handed out earlier as part of their lesson on the War of Independence. Quinn had told them tales of what she remembered, from the dumping of the tea to Paul Revere’s Ride. All of them had sat listening, ignoring Michelle as she had tried to drag the topic back towards the war itself.

Quinn shot Carson a look as he leaned casually against the metal railings, drumming his fingers on his folded arms. Rachel lit up a cigar, unconcerned with the scandalised tuts of Michelle as she blew streams of smoke into the air, lost in boredom.

Only when the squires had left and Michelle had bustled off, muttering that one of the textbooks had been damaged, did the two of them approach.

“Come on,” Carson said cheerily, taking hold of Quinn’s arm and steering her away, “let’s go for a walk.”

“Carson, I’m-”

“Going for a walk with me, I know.” His smile widened to uncomfortable proportions as he dragged her alongside him. “You’ve barely spoken to anyone since you got back, and don’t think I haven’t noticed it. You’ve been avoiding Paladin Danse, too.”

Quinn yanked her arm free and scowled at him. “So what if I am? He’s just my sponsor.”

_“Just_ your sponsor, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

An urge to poke him in his smug face surged through her, so she turned on her heel and stormed off in the opposite direction. This was not what she needed right now. There was too much on her mind.

Carson was either oblivious to her rage, or simply didn’t care. He walked after her, taking a single stride for every two of her own, the smile slipping away as she threw him an ugly look.

“Why are you following me? Just...just _go away.”_

He flinched at her venom, but then frowned. “If we’re gonna do this the hard way...” He put his fingers into his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

“What-?” Quinn began, but a second later her world spun around as a strong pair of hands swept her off her feet and dropped her over someone’s shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Quinn caught a glimpse of black hair pulled back into a tight bun, and the smell of cigar smoke.

“Rachel, put me down, damn it!”

“It’s for your own good,” Carson said, jogging to catch up as Rachel Marguerie set off in a fast paced march. “Besides, she’s a head taller than me, so I wouldn’t argue with the lady.”

“Put me down _now!”_ She tried to squirm, but Rachel’s arm clamped tight down on her legs, holding her in place. The woman had a grip like a vice.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The voice of Proctor Ingram was like a whip crack, but Rachel took it in her stride, turning to face the officer as Carson leapt forward and forced his hand over Quinn’s mouth before she could protest any further.

“Just a bit of disciplinary action, ma’am,” the knight-sergeant said without missing a beat. “I favour thinking outside of the box to the more traditional methods.”

There was a pause, and Quinn could almost hear Proctor Ingram’s eyes rolling in her head.

“Fine. Just get this crap out of my workshop. _Now.”_

“Yes, ma’am!”

And they were off again, Rachel’s stride bouncing her so much that Quinn could barely gather her thoughts, let alone yell out for help. Though judging by what had happened to the lancer who had talked back to Rachel the previous month, she suspected no one would challenge the knight-sergeant.

There was a blast of cold air, and suddenly Quinn was dropped to the metal deck with a bump. Not wasting a second, she jumped to her feet. “What the hell do you think you’re-?”

“Zip it.” Rachel towered over her, her expression firmly telling Quinn she was not about to take any shit. She grabbed Carson by the scruff of the neck and dragged him forward, almost throwing him into Quinn, before kicking the door shut behind her with a bang and leaning against it. They were on the topmost deck, the most secluded area of the ship.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Quinn snapped, not caring how she sounded. What right did they have to bring her out here like some naughty child?

“I ain’t _‘fucking kidding you,’”_ Rachel replied, her tone so fierce that Quinn shrank away a little.

She had forgotten the golden rule of the grunts: you didn’t fuck with Knight-Sergeant Marguerie. All anyone had to do was look at the lancer now scraping rust off the exterior of the Prydwen to be reminded of that simple fact.

Rachel paused, dragging on her cigar, and then blew out the smoke through her nose, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t have the patience for games, Quinn. You haven’t spoken to any of us for about a week now. I’d like to know _why.”_

“Isn’t it enough to want a bit of damn privacy after I just buried my husband?” Quinn shot back, finding indignant confidence in the midst of her anger. “So what if I want to be alone for a while?”

“Because this isn’t normal for you,” Carson cut in quickly as Rachel swelled up like a bullfrog. “Last time you were having trouble, you still _talked_ to us, even at your worst. Now it’s...nothing.” He fidgeted a little. “Has something happened between you and Paladin Danse?”

Quinn knew this was coming somehow, but it didn’t stop the horrible twisting sensation within her. “What do you mean, Paladin Danse? He’s just my-”

“Do me a favour and cut the crap,” Rachel drawled, chewing on her cigar. “Because the only one who seems to believe this bullshit is you, and half the time I don’t think you’re even convinced by it yourself.”

She gave a deep, hacking cough, and then said, “I’ve known Danse for a long, long time. I’ve _never_ seen him act with anyone else the way he does around you.” Rachel locked eyes with Quinn. “And since I’m blessed with the gift of being a woman, I have a pretty good idea that the feeling is mutual.”

Carson nodded and began to lean on the railings, but then looked over the side and quickly changed his mind. Rachel glanced at him and gave a dry laugh as his cheeks reddened slightly.

He rubbed the back of his head and said, _“Talk_ to us, Quinn. Has something bad happened?”

“No.” Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. Nothing that they didn’t already know.

Carson suddenly looked deeply uncomfortable. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but…” He threw the knight-sergeant a nervous look. “Has Paladin Danse ever tried anything he shouldn’t have?”

Quinn’s mouth fell open as Rachel dropped her cigar. The two women looked at each other and then rounded on him.

_“What?_ No! Jesus Christ!” said Quinn.

“Carson, you idiot,” Rachel added in a cutting tone, bending down and picking up her smoke. “Does he look like the kind of man to-?”

“Well then if he hasn’t done anything to piss you off,” Carson said loudly over both of them, “then why are you acting like he has?”

His comment felt like a punch to her gut; Quinn took a step back, wincing. Was that what it came across like? Is that what they all thought of her? Is that what Danse thought of himself? An image of the funeral came to mind, the effort he had put into it...and this was how she had repaid him.

With a groan, Quinn slowly sank to the floor. “For fuck’s sake, Carson, I’m _married._ Nate’s not even been dead a year and I’m already…” She shook her head. “I can’t do this. It’s better for everyone if I just stay away from Danse.”

Carson sat down next to her and put his arm around her. “So you do have feelings for him then?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Quinn snapped, burying her face in her hands at the admission.

Rachel gave a small snort of laughter. “I knew it.”

“And I’m well aware the feeling is mutual,” Quinn went on, ignoring the knight-sergeant. “He’s as subtle as a fucking brick. But every time I’m near him all I feel is guilty because of Nate, and...and what do I _do?”_

Carson gave her a little squeeze. “You said Danse has never tried anything, right?”

Quinn gave a small nod.

“Then you do nothing.”

She glanced at him, frowning. “What kind of solution is that?”

“The most practical one,” said Rachel with a shrug. “If there’s one thing _everyone—”_ She shot Carson a sharp look, “—knows about Danse, it’s that he’s the epitome of professional. I can’t see him doing anything unless he was certain you wanted him to, and even then he might not.”

“I agree,” Carson said.

Quinn looked at him, frowning. “If you agree he’s professional, then why did you suggest otherwise in the first place?”

He shrugged. “In case I was wrong.”

Quinn smiled and leaned against him, giving his arm a squeeze. “You’re a good friend.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty fantastic.”

She laughed, and Carson grinned.

Rachel rolled her eyes, but smiled all the same. “You’ve got a boyfriend, Carson. Break it up.” She smirked as Carson went scarlet, and then turned back to Quinn. “But like I was saying, he won’t do anything you don’t want him to. You can’t help how you feel about a person, but you can control how you respond to it. If you think it’s too soon to be moving on, then carry on as normal.”

“It’s better than cutting someone you’re close to out of your life, at any rate,” Carson added gently.

“But Nate…” Quinn mumbled.

“Wouldn’t want you to cling to the past rather than living,” Rachel interrupted. “If you had died and he hadn’t, would you want him to spend the rest of his years miserable and not trying to move on?”

She shook her head.

“Then there’s your answer.”

Quinn didn’t respond. No matter how Carson and Rachel tried to dress it up, it wasn’t as simple as that. She couldn’t make her guilt go just by wishing it. If it had been that easy, she’d have done away with it months ago. And then there was another problem that had nothing to do with her feelings for Danse.

Just before she had left Sanctuary, she had approached Sturges and asked him for a copy of the Institute data. She wasn’t sure why she had asked him; she just knew that she had to do it. It had been burning a hole in her pocket ever since. The walk back across the wasteland had been a one-sided conversation on Danse’s part, an effort that he had not kept up for long, leaving the rest of the journey in awkward silence.

No, it wasn’t just the guilt over Nate. It was the guilt of what she had been hiding from Danse for months. He would have wanted to know about that data, would have wanted her to at least tell him about it, even if she refused to hand it over. Now she had it, and every interaction with him risked her blurting out the truth, if only to quell the gnawing sensation in her stomach.

Better to just block him out completely.

But now, sat here with Carson and Rachel, Quinn wondered if that had really been the right choice. She didn’t feel any better for it. If anything, her isolation had made her feel worse.

_I was supposed to be changing my behaviour, not enabling it._

The sharp jolt of shame seared through Quinn, cutting her line of thought dead, and she doubled over, feeling nauseous. She stood up, staggering slightly, and walked over to the railings, leaning heavily on them. Carson got to his feet and took hold of her uniform, tugging her back and pulling her into a hug. Quinn half-heartedly held onto him. It wasn’t the same as Danse.

Patting her between the shoulder blades, Carson said, “Feel any better?”

“No,” Quinn replied honestly, laying her head against him.

“Oh.”

“But I know what I need to do now.”

“Well that’s something at least, if a bit vague. But I’ll take it.”

Quinn laughed and pulled away from him, smiling. Then her smile dropped. “I have to go talk to him, don’t I?”

“Yep,” said Rachel, stubbing out her cigar on the railings and flicking it over the side.

Sighing, Quinn glanced back towards the door leading into the ship. “Can’t I just stay out here forever?”

“If you want to die from the cold, maybe,” Carson replied, shivering. “But if you’re stuck for how to start the conversation, then I have an idea.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “This ought to be good.”

* * *

_Knock knock_

Danse groaned, opening his eyes and seeing only darkness. There was something warm and heavy pressing against his face.

“Come in,” he said. The words came out muffled and he frowned, feeling the same something stick to his cheeks and forehead. Raising a hand, he groped at his head and felt his fingers touch a hard, flat object.

_Oh, right. The book._

Yawing, Danse sat up, pulling the book off his face and blinking as the dim light in his room hurt his eyes. Staring blearily at the hardback in his hand, he picked up a piece of paper and marked his place, before closing it and yawning again.

_Knock knock._

“I said _come in,”_ he replied, aware of the hard note in his tone. Cutler had called it his _“pissy morning voice.”_ Danse had called it, _“coffee first.”_

The door swung open and Quinn stepped in, holding a stack of papers in her arms. Danse felt a slight jolt in his chest, but forced his face to stay blank. There was an edge of resentment that he couldn’t deny, and he felt no urge to show any warmth toward her right now.

Quinn looked guilty now, watching him sitting on his bed, scratching his head.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I didn’t realise you were asleep. I’ll come back later.”

“No, it’s fine. I just dozed off.” Resisting another yawn, he slowly got to his feet and stretched his limbs. When he looked over at Quinn again, she was staring intently at him. Danse frowned, uneasy. “What?”

“Uh, I...I just…” Her cheeks flushed slightly pink. “I’ve never seen you without your hood on before.”

A few seconds passed before he realised what she was talking about, and Danse absent-mindedly ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “It was getting in the way of reading.” He glanced around and mumbled to himself, “Where did I put it?”

“You look good without it,” Quinn said, and then paused, her face now burning bright red as she stammered, “Those hoods aren’t exactly flattering. I mean-”

“What do you have there?” he asked, quickly changing the subject as his own cheeks grew hot. Why did she have to be so damn confusing? One minute she was treating him like he had the plague, and the next-

His thoughts were cut short as Quinn forcefully slammed him with an armful of reports, almost knocking him over as she blabbered away.

“Just paperwork!” A few slipped off the top of the stack and fell to the floor. “While you were away from the Prydwen, some work piled up and, well…” Quinn crouched down, quickly scooping up the wayward papers and shoving them onto the stack so hard they nearly fell off again.

Danse turned and tottered towards his desk, dropping the reports down with a loud _thud._ Giving her an inquisitive look, he shook his head and leaned against the table, folding his arms. His concern had turned into annoyance as they had made their way back across the wasteland, and the irritation had increased tenfold since they’d been on the Prydwen. He could tolerate many things, but being deliberately ignored for no apparent reason was not one of them.

“Quinn, I’m not stupid,” he said, letting a glare settle onto his face. “You’ve barely said two words to me since Sanctuary, and now you just show up out of the blue with a month’s worth of work? I can understand if you’ve taken issue with something I’ve done, but what I don’t appreciate is you being unable to have an adult discussion about it.”

Quinn seemed to go to the edge of red, her skin taking on a blotchy scarlet hue as she hid her face in her hands.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. And it’s not just you I’ve been avoiding. It’s…” She dropped her arms and fixed her eyes to the floor. “When I went to the Institute, I...well...Sturges...he gave me a device.”

And it all came out.

He stood and listened as Quinn told him of the data she had taken from the Institute. How she had given it back to Sturges; how she hadn’t bothered to tell him about it, because she hadn’t wanted to hurt Shaun.

Danse wasn’t surprised.

Angry, yes.

But surprised? No, not surprised at this. How could he be surprised at a further display of her blatant disregard towards the Brotherhood? How could he be surprised that she would hide information that could be detrimental towards the war effort for her own personal purposes?

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” he said as she paused to draw breath. His voice was cold and sharp, a harshness that matched his scowl. “It’s obvious to me you made your decision long ago.”

Quinn shivered at his words; then her face hardened and she finally met his eye as she said, “Don’t be so quick to dismiss me, _tin can.”_

Hancock’s favourite nickname grated on him, its irritating quality intensified by the simple fact it was coming from her lips. But then all annoyance left him as Quinn dug her hand into her pocket and produced a small device, grey and battered.

Danse blinked. “Is that…?”

Quinn nodded, looking pale. “The day after the funeral, I asked Sturges for a copy.” Her fingers closed around the device, sealing it away from view. “I’m potentially holding the power to destroy the Institute...destroy my son. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

This was...strange. Quinn, torn between blood and Brotherhood? She was a different woman to the one who had returned to Sanctuary, screaming, vowing never to hurt her own. Not only had she made a copy of the one thing that could harm her child, but she was telling _him_ about it.

Danse had once pictured this moment in his head, after he had stalked off on his own when Quinn had declared she wouldn’t be going back with him to the Prydwen. In that imaginary scenario, she had meekly accepted he was right, and he had pushed her towards the path he wanted, the _correct_ path.

Now, faced with the potential reality of this daydream, his words caught in his throat.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said quietly. “I can’t force you to make that decision.”

Quinn clutched at her hair, taking a deep breath. “I’ve had time on my hands. Time to get better, and time to really think about the Commonwealth. Father is... _Shaun_ is a monster. He kills people and toys with their lives, both human and synth. I don’t know if I can stop him myself. But I can hand over the tools to someone else.”

“Why have you changed your mind?”

“Being here alone,” Quinn replied with a shrug as she let her arms drop to her sides. “I’ve made my own friends and my own judgements. I’ve had the opportunity to see that while there is an edge of...over-enthusiasm in the Brotherhood, at least you all still try. And not everyone hates synths and ghouls. There are good people here, people who really want to help others, and unlike the Minutemen, you... _we_ have the resources to make it possible.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in.

_We._

She had just said _we._

An odd feeling came over Danse, hot and prickling in the base of his stomach as chills swept over his skin. He licked his lips and tried to speak several times before managing, “You really mean that?”

Quinn gave a firm nod. “I’ve not always agreed with the Brotherhood, and there are still some things I don’t like, but it’s like anything really; you’re never going to approve of all of a group’s actions completely. But what you tried to tell me back at Sanctuary, I finally get it now. This place and these people...they’re family. Carson, you, Kapraski, Casey, and even Rachel...I think you’d die for me if we were in a tight spot. And I think I’d do the same for you.”

“If you give that data to Elder Maxson, there’s no going back.”

She nodded. “I know. But I trust the Brotherhood to get the job done. Shaun needs to be stopped, and I can’t do it myself. I need your help.” Her eyes turned towards the floor. “I’m scared.”

Danse sighed and moved towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever you need, you know we can provide. We’ll take the necessary steps to achieve that goal. I’ll see to it myself if I have to.”

With a smile, Quinn nodded, placing her own hand on top of his, squeezing his fingers. An electric shock ran through him, and he shivered, his grip tightening on her for the briefest of seconds.

In that moment, he knew things would be fine between them again. Danse wasn’t entirely sure why he was so certain of this. Maybe it was the way she was looking at him. Maybe it was because she had approached him first. Or just maybe because he wanted things to go back to the way they were. The icy distance between them had been hard to endure.

Quinn looked as if she wanted to say something else, her hand fidgeting on top of his as her eyes flicked from the floor and back to him. Then she looked at the book in his hand, and Danse sensed she’d lost her nerve.

“What’s that?”

She was changing the subject. He decided to indulge her, pulling his hand free from hers with little resistance, before holding up the book for her to see, watching as she silently mouthed, _“The Tales of King Arthur.”_

“I’ve had this for some time,” he said, flicking through the worn pages. “It’s a favourite. One of the first challenging books I ever read.”

“Challenging how?” Quinn asked, pulling a confused face. “Old myths never really struck me as hard to read.”

“They are when the translated text is kept as close to the original as possible.” Danse opened the book at the page he had marked with paper, cleared his throat, and then read aloud, _“For madam, I love not to be constrained to love; for love must arise of the heart, and not by no constraint.”_

When Danse glanced up at Quinn, he had to bite back his laughter at her screwed up expression as her brain waded through what he’d just told her. He waited patiently, grinning, knowing she would have to admit defeat.

Quinn, however, didn’t say anything for a while, simply staring at the book. Then she said, “You’ve never struck me as particularly bookish. Where did you learn all of this?”

Danse shrugged. “I told you I used to read.”

“Yeah, but you said you read because it was something to do. This is...different. You seem passionate about this one, enough to actually sit down and make sense of the text. Why?”

“Well…” He looked down at the book, and images of Arthur Maxson flashed to mind.

_“Have you read it yet?”_

_Danse was suddenly uncomfortable. He’d had the book for a few days, and he’d tried his best, but it was so damn… “No, not yet.”_

_“Oh.” Arthur looked crestfallen. “Well, okay then.” He walked away, kicking at a stone on the floor, while Danse stared after him, feeling guilty._

_“I’ll read it tonight,” Danse said suddenly, ignoring the frown Cutler was giving him._

_“Okay,” replied Arthur, not bothering to turn around as he walked away._

Yes, that memory was as clear as day. Danse still felt discomfort over the exchange.

Arthur Maxson may not have believed him at the time, but Danse had meant it. As soon as he had been off duty, he had retreated to his dorm, retrieved the book, and sat down with it. After battering his head with the archaic prose for a few hours, however, Danse had realised he would need help, and requested a dictionary from one of the scribes. Thankfully, it had been Field-Scribe Cooper who had handed it over, a little bit bemused, but with no questions asked. Then Danse had returned to his bunk and resumed the onslaught, pouring over it well into the night.

And the next night.

And the next.

A week later, he had sat down with Arthur and asked him what he had thought of the demise of Elaine of Astolat. The look on the boy’s face had been priceless, worth more than the headache the reading had caused Danse.

And so they had talked. And as they had talked, Danse found something strange happening.

He was _enjoying_ the discussion.

“Danse?”

Quinn was looking at him, slightly puzzled.

“Sorry,” Danse said quickly. He glanced down at the book again and then back to Quinn, unsure whether he wanted to share such a treasured memory. Only Cutler had ever known the story about the book, and that had been because he was with Danse when he had received it. But the curious look on Quinn’s face was so endearing, he suddenly found he wanted to tell her.

“Elder Maxson gave me it when I first knew him, about ten years ago, as a thank you for all the books I salvaged from the wasteland for him. He was always a fan of Arthurian myth, and he thought I might like it too.”

Quinn grinned a little. “I would never have thought Elder Maxson liked King Arthur.”

Danse shrugged, remembering Elder Maxson’s boyish face gleaming with mischief as he had pressed the book into his arms, all those years ago.

“So, what does it mean then?” she asked suddenly.

“What?”

“That passage that you read to me before. What does it mean?”

To Danse’s surprise, she looked genuinely interested. Slightly flustered by this, Danse glanced back down at the page and reread it to remind himself of the text.

“This, uh, it is,” Danse said, fumbling his words a little before finding his voice. “It’s a conversation between Guinevere and Lancelot. Do you know who they are?”

“Guinevere was King Arthur’s wife, and Lancelot was his most trusted knight.” Quinn paused and frowned. “I think. I never really took to myths and legends.”

“No, you’re right,” Danse replied, smiling. “In this section, Guinevere accused Lancelot of causing the death of another woman by breaking her heart, because he didn’t love her back. The passage I read was Sir Lancelot’s response to the accusation.”

Quinn rolled her eyes at him, but she was grinning. “Danse, that isn’t telling me what it _means.”_

“Sorry.” Danse felt his cheeks flush. “He’s confirming his love for her, by telling her his devotion and his love is not something he can control. It’s this lack of choice in his feelings - and hers - that caused their affair, and through that, the eventual destruction of Arthur’s kingdom.”

He had often argued the point with Elder Maxson that Guinevere and Lancelot’s actions had been stupid and selfish, putting their own feelings before their duty and their king. Oddly enough, Elder Maxson had a more sympathetic view of them - yes, they were wrong in what they had done, but they were only human after all.

It was one of the few topics that they had never agreed upon.

Quinn seemed to mull this over in her head. “It seems to me like they were being extremely selfish.”

_“Exactly-”_ Danse began, but then Quinn went on.

“But...well. Love makes us do stupid things. I think I know that more than anyone.”

The conversation had taken a sudden, serious turn, her mind clearly on things other than the book in his hands. He shut it with a snap, and she jumped, pulling her hand out from her pocket, the grey device clutched between her fingers.

Danse cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on the small, battered piece of plastic. “So...the data.”

“Yeah.” Quinn started fidgeting again. “I can’t tell Elder Maxson everything. Not if I want to stay in the Brotherhood. But I suppose I could...bend the truth?”

“Better than lying to him directly,” Danse said, nodding. He wasn’t happy with the idea of not being completely honest with Elder Maxson, but a half truth was better than an outright lie. “I’ll come with you.”

Quinn’s face lit up at once. “You will?”

“Yes. I’m your sponsor, so you are my responsibility. And…” He gave a small shrug. “I’m your friend. This isn’t something you should do alone.”

She beamed at him, and he felt a slight warmth in his chest. Laying his book down on his desk, he headed towards the door.

“Let’s just hope he’s in a good mood.”

* * *

Elder Maxson was not in a good mood.

“You had information about the Institute and thought it _beneath you_ to inform me?”

For a twenty year old with an unkempt beard, Quinn had to admit Maxson had a gift for being menacing in a restrained sort of way, like he had the will and capacity to do a great deal of damage, but simply felt it not worth the effort. He glared at her, the device she had just given him clutched tightly in his hand. His sharp eyes trailed from her to Danse, and the scowl deepened.

“Paladin, did you know about this?”

Danse opened his mouth to answer, but Quinn quickly cut across him.

“No, he-”

“My question was directed to Paladin Danse, not you, _Knight.”_

Quinn shut up, and Maxson turned back to Danse.

“I ask again,” he said. “Did you know about this?”

Danse glanced at Quinn and then sighed. “No, sir. I was only told about this just before we came to see you.”

“So you persuaded her to hand it over?”

“No, sir.” Danse repeated, shaking his head. “She informed me of the data’s existence, and then came to the conclusion on her own that the information should go to you. I had no part in the process.”

Maxson considered this, looking down at the device in his palm before closing his fingers around it again. “I see.” He turned to Quinn. “How did you obtain this data?”

Quinn met his eye. “I went there in person.”

Maxson said nothing. She took this as an invitation to continue.

“As you know, my husband was murdered by the Institute, and my son stolen by them.” She hated how matter-of-fact her voice sounded, but at this point, she felt too numb to the whole incident to feed any emotion into it. “Before I joined the Brotherhood, I had help from the Minutemen to build a teleporter to the Institute, which - without getting into the complicated science behind it that I barely understand myself - was attuned to me, and only me. A one-way ride into the facility. It was completed after I joined the Brotherhood, but I decided not to share that information because my sole priority was finding my son. I felt that if I told you beforehand, the Institute could become a warzone, and I didn’t want to risk his life. As it turns out, he’s…”

“Knight-Captain Cade informed me of the reasons why you were removed from duty,” Maxson said, nodding. “But I wasn’t aware of how you found out about your son. This explains a great deal.”

To Quinn’s great relief, he didn’t ask Danse if he had known about the teleporter as well. Perhaps he thought the paladin wouldn’t have kept such a great secret from him. In any other situation, he might have been right.

However, he did have questions for her.

“Knight, you know that we wanted to find our way inside the facility. Why didn’t you inform me of your access or of the data you had obtained after the event?”

Quinn sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for either. As you’ve already mentioned, Knight-Captain Cade removed me from duty because of my mental state at the time. I wasn’t thinking straight back then.” She gave a small shrug. “I am now. I want to bring down those _bastards_ who destroyed my family, but I can’t do it on my own. Too much shit in my head to go after them myself...sir.”

Danse glared at her, but Maxson seemed amused by her swearing. Some of the annoyance had left his rugged features, at least. He pocketed the device and said, “While I would have preferred this came to us straight away, you delivered it in the end. That is what matters. I assume the teleporter still works?”

“Yes. The Institute don’t view me as a threat, but...well. More of a curiosity, I think. They know I came from a vault, which was why they took my son in the first place. I think they’re studying me.”

The lie was easy, but it was the only way she could explain her continued access without implicating herself with Shaun. That truth was not for Maxson.

He straightened up, giving her a look that felt as if he was chipping right into her core, trying to decide whether he believed her or not. Then his next utterance made Quinn realise that Elder Maxson was a lot more informed that she could have ever given him credit for.

“As it stands, I already knew about the data and your trip to the facility.”

Quinn blinked, stunned. “Sir?”

Maxson nodded. “The Brotherhood is not an entity that operates in the dark. I received intelligence recently that informed me of everything you had just told me, minus the reasons for your silence. I had been planning to take you aside and discuss why you had chosen not to share such valuable information with me. The...interview would have been in a less welcoming environment.”

His words made her shiver, and she felt like somehow, by being honest, she had just dodged one hell of a bullet.

“I’m quite disappointed you chose to build the Signal Interceptor without the Brotherhood, Knight,” Maxson continued. But then his scowl softened considerably. “However, I’m not an unreasonable man. Your motives, while not rational, came at an irrational time in your life, and because of that I deem them acceptable. That aside, you’ve secured passage to and from the Institute’s facility, which was one of our primary goals, so I’m willing to overlook your lapse in judgement.”

Quinn let out a whooshing sigh of relief, which sparked a twitch in Maxson’s lips. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was holding back a smile. Quinn gave him a grateful smile of her own and said, “Thank you, sir, for being so understanding.”

Maxson nodded again. “Since you’ve unexpectedly accelerated our plans, I now have two missions for you to complete.” He took the device out of his pocket and held it out to her. “First and foremost, I want you to take this to Proctor Ingram right away. There could be data vital to the success of our mission on that tape, so we can’t afford to take any chances.”

Quinn took the device back. It felt warm in her hands.

“The second part of your mission requires a bit of background to explain.”

He then went on to tell her about Doctor Li, a noted mind in the field of nuclear engineering, who had been instrumental in the Brotherhood’s success against the Enclave, ten years ago. Quinn listened as the tale unfolded, how Li had disagreed with the continued Brotherhood presence in the Capital Wasteland and left of her own accord, travelling into the Commonwealth in self-imposed exile. The suspicion was that she had gone to make contact with the Institute.

“Your mission is simple,” said Maxson. “Once you’re inside the Institute, we want you to track down Doctor Li’s whereabouts. If you find out she’s still alive, make contact with her and convince her to return to the Brotherhood of Steel. There’s a special project we’re working on, and it needs her attention.”

“I...I have to go back into the Institute?” Quinn whispered, her insides freezing up.

“Yes, Knight,” Maxson replied, frowning at her. “You have access that the rest of us do not. I would be a fool not to take advantage of that.”

“But…” Her breathing became heavy, her heart racing as she swayed on the spot. Shaun. She would have to face _Shaun._ “Sir, I can’t. I can’t go back in there. Not where I found…” She trailed off, feeling too sick to continue.

“Sir,” Danse said quickly, filling her silence. “Do you think she is ready for such a venture?”

Maxson’s frown deepened as he observed Quinn. “I believe you _have_ to be ready, Knight. I understand you suffered, and continue to suffer, great distress at their hands, but no one else can take your place. If there was another option, I would use it, but there isn’t. The Institute have decided to make you their lab rat, and I intend to exploit their oversight. If you want revenge-”

“I don’t want revenge,” Quinn interrupted, in that moment not giving a damn about his rank. “I just want it to all stop. I don’t want them doing it to anyone else.”

With a look of approval, Maxson said, “Good. Revenge can be poisonous to the mind, and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. But if you want them to stop, then you have to put aside your discomfort and go back.”

She knew he was speaking sense, but the logic burned more than anything else. It reminded her of Shaun and his cold outlook on the world. Squeezing her eyes shut, Quinn took a deep breath, and then nodded. Before Maxson could speak, however, she said, “What’s the project that needs Doctor Li’s attention?”

When she opened her eyes again, Maxson was wearing a torn expression, as if deciding whether or not to answer her question.

Eventually, he said, “Doctor Li previously worked on a potent weapon for the Brotherhood of Steel. We’d like her to continue where she left off. That’s all I can tell you. While I commend you for being honest today, I still hold some reservations, which I’m sure you can understand. That, and I have no intention of sending you behind enemy lines with such a valuable piece of intelligence. It would put all our plans at risk, and potentially put you at risk of torture.”

Danse’s head jerked in Maxson’s direction at this last utterance, but Maxson seemed not to notice.

“Just keep your mind on the mission and don’t let anything they say sway you from your duty,” he went on, and then saluted her. “Good luck, Knight.”

Vaguely remembering to salute back, Quinn ambled out of the room, Danse watching her closely as she almost staggered towards the ladders that led to the lower decks. Somehow, she made it down without falling, and then leaned against a nearby wall, breathing heavily through her nose.

“Quinn,” Danse said in a low voice, his face pale.

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to say. I have to go back. I have to face him.”

“I can go with you-”

“No, you can’t.” Her heart was hammering in her chest at the idea of doing it alone, but they both knew there were no other alternatives. “We just had this discussion. The teleporter only works for me. You have to stay behind.”

“Quinn,” he said again, his voice sounding strangled now.

“I’ll be careful. I’ll find Li and hopefully avoid Shaun. And if not...I’ll just have to talk my way around him.” Then without thinking, without caring that the surrounding walkways were full of soldiers and scribes, Quinn reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’m not going to hang around in that place. Straight in and out. I have every intention of returning.”

Danse squeezed her fingers back, and then looked over his shoulder and quickly let go. “Alright. Stay safe, soldier.”

Part of her wanted to ask him what the project was. She was almost certain that Danse would be in the loop for such a thing, regarded as highly as he was by Maxson. But she respected him too much to force him into such an awkward position.

Quinn smiled. “I will. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to waiting4morning for their invaluable beta help. Especially since they were busy this weekend and went out of their way to help me. And thanks for all the comments! I also have a couple of people who asked if they could do fanart. The answer is always YES. I'll link it on my profile whenever I get some so you guys can see it too!
> 
> I'm really sorry for not replying to comments recently. I've been extremely busy with work...
> 
> (like, I just got in now and it's 4am...)
> 
> @_@
> 
> Also oooh, thirty chapters! When I hit twenty chapters, I did wonder if thirty would be my max. But, uh, yeah I've been planning out ahead a lot and I've realised that this fic is very likely to overshoot fifty chapters, depending on how things go. So. Yay for long fic?
> 
> (hahaha a reminder I originally thought this story would be ten chapters long)


	31. The Wicked and the Weary

“The child synth can’t age, you know.”

Quinn stopped dead in her tracks.

Part of her wanted to turn and look at the Institute scientist who had just spoken, but experience had taught her that if she did that, they might not continue. Instead, she busied herself, leaning on a nearby wall and looking out onto the gleaming plaza below, praying she hadn’t given herself away by her abrupt change of course.

Thankfully, the years of isolation seemed to have dulled any perceptiveness the Institute's inhabitants may have had, and neither scientist so much as glanced at Quinn as they continued their conversation.

“Really? Where did you hear that?”

“Doctor Li. Apparently Father hasn’t requested it to age like the standard Gen 3s. Odd, really. I would have thought he’d want to test the capabilities of the aging process and see how far it goes.”

Quinn’s ears pricked up at the mention of Doctor Li’s name, but the concept of an eternal child pushed her mission aside as concern swept over her.

The synth of child Shaun would never grow up?

Maxson’s orders were to go and fetch Doctor Li. She had told Danse - _promised_ Danse - that she would be in and out of the Institute with no delays. But the mere idea of a synth locked in childhood disturbed her to her core. It wasn’t right. It was...it was…

What the hell was Shaun playing at? Bad enough that he experimented with synths in the first place, but this was a step too far.

Quinn clenched her fists as the scientists droned on behind her, their words lost in the midst of her turmoil. Seeing Shaun again was the last thing she wanted.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face him.

_You have to,_ she thought to herself. _You have to. Do it for Shaun. Do it for both of them._

A low moan of anguish sounded in her throat. Later. She would do it later. She needed to find Li first. Taking a deep breath, Quinn set off again.

“Who is that?”

“Father’s parent. Frozen in a vault for over two-hundred years.”

“Fascinating. No wonder she looks so...shabby.”

Quinn gritted her teeth. A brief thought crossed her mind, telling her to ignore them, not to rise up to it. Danse would want her to keep her cool.

_Danse isn't here._

“Y’know,” Quinn snapped, whirling around, “if I was gonna talk shit about the Director’s mother, I would at least wait until she was out of earshot.”

She glared at them, one of them blushing furiously while the other looked scandalised, and then added, “You _morons.”_

With that, Quinn marched off, leaving them to splutter in her wake as she made her way towards the stairwell that led down to the plaza.

* * *

By the time Quinn had made it to her goal, she had managed to calm down, but she still felt unsettled.

_This is an evil place._

“Excuse me, Doctor Li?”

Doctor Li glanced up from her work, glaring. She was the queen of the Institute’s Advanced Systems, and held her title like a sword, her demeanour sour as Quinn trespassed into her kingdom. She had met Doctor Li briefly when she had taken her initial tour of the Institute, and the woman’s attitude hadn’t changed one bit.

“You again? What do you want now?” she said sharply.

Before Quinn could answer, another voice spoke.

“Doctor Li?”

Both women turned around to see a small boy dressed in Institute clothes staring at them curiously.

“Who is that, Doctor Li?” he asked.

“This is-” Doctor Li began, glancing back at Quinn, before hesitating and frowning.

The moment the boy synth had entered the room, Quinn had felt her insides freeze up, her body stepping back of its own accord until she was pressed as far into the nearest wall as she could go. Her chest was heaving, heart racing, sweat forming across her palms and forehead as cold shivers raced down her spine, the words of the scientists echoing in her head.

_“The child synth can’t age, you know.”_

Doctor Li paused, and then returned her attention to the synth, her voice taking on a gentleness that Quinn had never heard from her before. “Shaun, why don’t you go into the other room for a bit? I need to have a private talk.”

The synth looked as if he wanted to argue, but then nodded, pouting a little. “Okay.”

He left, and Doctor Li strode over to the door, sealing it behind him.

“You alright?” she said to Quinn. Her tone was abrupt, but not unkind, and there was a glimmer of concern under her hard exterior.

“Can we leave, please?” Quinn whispered, unable to take her gaze off the synth, still visible through the glass walls of his cell.

Doctor Li nodded, gesturing for Quinn to go first. With the greatest effort, she dragged her eyes from the boy and forced her lead-filled legs to take her away. The doctor followed, again shutting the door after them. The second Quinn heard the clunk, she let out a long, whooshing breath, and leaned over a nearby console, shaking.

Li bustled around and a few seconds later, a cup of water was held under Quinn’s nose. Quinn took it with murmured thanks and downed it in one, not caring that she spilt half of it all over herself. Li took the cup off her and put it on the side, and then stared at her, _analysing_ her.

“I’m sorry that happened,” Li said eventually, “but my original question still stands. What do you _want?”_

Trying to regain some of her composure, Quinn stood back from the console and held up her hands in mock surrender. “Any reason for the hostility, doctor?”

She knew she was supposed to be winning the scientist over, but like hell she was just going to lie down and take Li’s crap for Maxson. She sounded more confident than she felt, at any rate.

“Well let’s see,” Li said, putting down her clipboard with a clatter. “A Brotherhood of Steel airship arrives in the Commonwealth, you find a way to intercept our teleport signal, and now you show up at my door. I knew it was just a matter of time before your people would track me down. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for almost a decade, waiting for them to send someone like you here to kill me.”

A jolt of panic shot through Quinn, and she glanced around, checking who was listening. Thankfully, the lab was empty. It seemed Li liked to work later than her staff.

“Yes,” Li continued, her scowl deepening. “I know you’re Brotherhood. Father may not have picked up on it, but I have.”

“If you know, why haven’t you told him?”

“Because I wasn’t sure until just now. The way you carry yourself, the fact you’ve gone out of your way to talk to me on more than one occasion.”

“Then call security if it bothers you so much.”

“Maybe I will.” She did not move, however. “But if you’ve made it in this far, others will follow. I’m simply putting off the inevitable.”

Quinn shook her head. “I’m not here to kill you, Doctor. The Brotherhood wants your help, not your head.”

Now that statement brought out a peculiar reaction. Doctor Li blinked, her hand jerking slightly and knocking the clipboard off the console. She stooped down to pick it up, giving Quinn a suspicious look as she did so.

“Wants my help?” she asked, straightening up and holding the clipboard like a shield. “Why? They seemed to have everything under control when I left.”

Quinn shrugged. “Things change.”

“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence,” Li replied, rolling her eyes. “Why on earth would I go crawling back to them? Why would I throw away everything I have here?”

Now that was a killer question. Maxson hadn’t given her a lot to go on with this discussion. Either that had been an oversight on his part, or he had more faith in her ability to persuade people than she thought.

An idea occurred to Quinn.

“Maxson - I mean - _Elder_ Maxson told me that you were against-”

“Elder _Maxson?”_ Li interrupted, her eyes widening. “Not that little snot-nosed boy who had to be reprimanded by Elder Lyons for trying to make friends with a Brotherhood war machine?”

Quinn couldn’t help herself. She started to laugh. Doctor blinked in surprise at her, and then smiled herself, Quinn’s giggles apparently relaxing her.

Once she had settled herself down, Quinn tried again. “Elder Maxson…” She grinned at Li. “...told me that you were against Brotherhood presence in the wasteland after the war with the Enclave was over. I’m guessing that was a moral conflict on your part?”

Doctor Li nodded. “People should be free to make their own way in life. I didn’t agree with their continued military presence. It was unnecessary after Project Purity was completed.”

“Project Purity?”

“We brought clean water to the wasteland, with the aim of making the water clean and available to all.”

_Aha,_ thought Quinn. _I’ve got you._

Out loud, she said, “I find it strange that you’d put so much concern into the common man, and then work for a place like the Institute.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not a stupid woman, Doctor Li,” said Quinn. “And while I’m not a scientist, neither am I. We both know that something isn’t right with this place, that there’s something sinister underneath it all. Father doesn’t tell you the truth, does he?”

“Whatever makes you think that?” she replied, though she sounded strained.

“I did my own digging the last time I was here. I found out about some of the experiments. Some of the _bullshit_ the Institute does. At first I thought you were all bad people, but talking to you now…” Quinn shrugged. “I think most of you aren’t aware of what goes on.”

Doctor Li looked troubled. “I confess, there are times when I feel like Father is hiding things from me, but…” She shook her head. “I don’t go by feelings. I go by facts. Evidence. And you have none.”

“You’re wrong.” It was a flash of sudden inspiration, and Quinn praised her damn luck that she had kept hold of Virgil’s set of holotapes. Without waiting for a response, Quinn pulled out the relevant tapes and played them to her on her Pip-Boy, taking care to stash away Nate’s holotape safely first.

_“What we're doing... it's not right. It needs to stop. If anyone should find this after... after I'm gone... know that I never wanted to hurt anyone. Anyone!”_

Li’s face went pale.

“You’re helping to hurt people,” Quinn said, when the tapes had finished, taking out Virgil’s last recording and replacing it with Nate’s once again. It felt safer in the Pip-Boy than on her person. “Snatching wastelanders, turning them into mutants, and then releasing them back out? How many people have died from this shit, Doctor?”

“That wasn’t my branch,” Li replied, but she looked horrified.

“Maybe not, but you wouldn’t work for the Brotherhood because they chose to stay in the Capital Wasteland. They’ve never murdered people, though. Never experimented on them. Never made creatures that eat people and then let them loose just to see what happened. Never lied to you to keep you cooperative.”

She looked faint. “What do you want with me?”

Quinn shrugged. “I only received a minimal amount of information, but what I was told was that Elder Maxson needs your expertise, and would like you to help the Brotherhood again. We aren’t the bad guys here, Doctor. You’re already working for them.”

Quinn waited. Finally, the doctor spoke.

“Fine. I’ll go to the Brotherhood and hear Maxson out for myself. I’ll make my own way there, though. Father will be suspicious if we go together.” She narrowed her eyes. “Now unless there’s anything else, I think you better leave.”

Quinn nodded. “Pleasure speaking with you, Doctor.”

Doctor Li did not respond.

* * *

_Shaun._

The climb up was torturous, every second an aeon as each step added to the pit of dread in her core. She had hoped never to see him again, the living, breathing reminder of all that had been stolen from her. Now she was willingly walking to him.

Reaching the door that led to his office, Quinn paused at the threshold, her throat painfully tight. Then she knocked, and it slid open with a clunk.

There, sitting at his desk under the unnatural fluorescent lighting, was Shaun.

She still couldn’t get used to the sight of him, an old man, older than her by far. But there was something else, too. A haggard quality that hadn’t been there before, his face gaunt, deep shadows lurking under his eyes.

Shaun looked up from his computer, astonished, and Quinn suspected he had thought she would never come back. In any other circumstance, he would have been right.

He smiled, and in his features, Quinn saw Nate. She felt her lips tremble, tears spiking her eyes, but then her resolve hardened and she folded her arms. Now was not the time for sentiment.

“The boy,” she said. “The boy synth. I heard he can’t age.”

Shaun frowned, and the warmth left him as an iciness filled the room. After a few beats, he said, “You are correct. But where did you learn such a thing?”

“Your people have loose lips in the corridors. Either they trust me, or they’re shit at keeping secrets.”

He winced as she swore, looking annoyed, and then stood up slowly, pain written across his face as his joints clicked. The disconnect Quinn felt increased. He was so _old._

“I’ll have to speak with the heads of the departments. I hadn’t realised my staff had become...chatty.” Straightening his lab coat, he moved around his desk, his expression becoming blank. “In all honesty, I hadn’t considered the lack of aging to be an issue. He’s a prototype after all, and we’re still experimenting on him.”

“It is a damn issue, Shaun,” Quinn snapped. “It’s not right to leave him as a child forever.”

“Why?”

The question caught her by surprise, and she blinked at him. “W-why? What do you mean, _why?”_

“I’m curious to hear your reasoning,” Shaun said, stepping towards her, his voice calm and even. “He is a synth with no real connection to you and yet you want him to age like a human. Why?”

Quinn recoiled as he approached, but then held her ground, noting the hurt in Shaun’s eyes at her flinch. “Because he should be given the opportunity to grow and learn like everyone else, experiments be damned. A synth is a person, not a _toy.”_

There was a long silence, a strange expression flickering over Shaun’s face. “You would treat him like a human being?”

“Of _course_ I would.” Quinn meant it. If Nick was anything to go by, the boy was just as capable of feelings as any human. “As far as I’m concerned, he _is_ human. He’s...he’s just been _made_ differently than us.”

Again, the strange look crossed his features, but this time he nodded and didn’t comment.

An emptiness filled the room as they stared at each other, and Quinn felt the familiar pangs of grief as she stood opposite her aged son. She licked her lips, wanting to banish the quiet. There were so many questions, things she had been unable to ask him the last time she had been here. Things she wasn’t even sure she wanted the answer to. The uncertainty was a blessing, allowing her to ignore the likely truth and fill the gaps with her own fancies. But this lack of conclusion was eating her away from the inside.

Quinn had to find the truth. She _had_ to.

“There’s so much I don’t know about you,” she blurted out, before hesitating. “Can you...can you tell me about your childhood? What was it like? Who looked after you?”

Shaun’s brow furrowed. “I thought I already spoke of this. Are you feeling well?”

“You don’t _understand,”_ Quinn replied. It was strange. She had thought about this a few times when she had been alone on the Prydwen, but had quickly banished it away. Now the notion was rattling around her head, demanding to be addressed. “I know you were raised by Kellogg and the facility, but who took care of you? Who gave you toys and picked out your clothes and read you bedtime stories and made you meals? Who loved you?”

The quiet came back, and Shaun looked uneasy.

“I…” He made a helpless gesture. “I had playthings and clothes from the facility, and meals were taken in the canteen with the other children. But aside from when I was needed to participate in experiments, I was left to my own devices. I received a quality education, and the Director often assessed me to make sure my happiness was at a suitable level, and-”

“Who _loved_ you?” Quinn repeated, more urgently now, hating the pleading note in her voice.

Shaun paused.

“No one,” he said finally.

Tears dripped down her cheeks as she activated her Pip-Boy. It whirred as the holotape clicked into place, and the recording filtered out, echoing in the gleaming, clinical office. The colour drained from Shaun’s face at the sound of his father’s voice, his eyes fixed on the device on Quinn’s wrist as Nate’s precious tape played.

She hadn’t listened to it since before she had gone to the Institute; every second was torture, ripping open the old wound so that her heart bled.

_“Now say goodbye, Shaun. Bye bye. Say bye bye! Bye, honey. We love you.”_

Silence.

Quinn sniffed as she stood rooted to the spot, her vision blurred with tears, Shaun now nothing but an indistinguishable smear amongst the fuzzy whites and greys. When he spoke, however, his voice was clear, though his tone was hoarse.

“That was my father?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes until her son came back into view. He looked as if he had aged another ten years, swaying on the spot as his fists clenched.

“I read the reports,” he said after a few moments. “But I’d never heard his…” Shaun cleared his throat, traces of anger in his expression. Then it passed, and he simply said, “I am glad Kellogg is dead.”

Quinn shivered. His voice was flat, emotionless, more like the Gen 2 synths he made than anything human. But it didn’t matter. She was his mother. Wiping her eyes again, she walked towards him, hesitated, and then hugged him.

He went rigid in her arms, and for a second, Quinn thought he would pull away. Then he awkwardly patted her on the back, before dropping his hands back to his sides. Sensing his discomfort, Quinn let go, but she gave him a watery smile, which he half returned.

“Your father loved you,” she said, holding her son at arm’s length. _“I_ love you, Shaun. No matter what happens, I will always love you, and that will never change. I’m just sorry so much time passed us by.”

“I…” Shaun seemed lost for words. But then he nodded. “I’m sorry we lost that time, too.”

There was a pause, and Shaun coughed. With some bitter relief, Quinn saw the conversation was coming to a close.

“I have to head back to the wasteland,” she said, making a vague gesture towards the door.

“And I need to get back to my work. But…” He coughed again, deeper this time. “If you want to talk at a later date, I will be here.”

Quinn nodded, forcing a smile as she took her leave, knowing she was betraying him with every comforting gesture, every second she withheld the Brotherhood’s plans from him. Unless Maxson sent her back here, she had no intention of returning. She may never see her son again.

“I...I love you,” Quinn repeated, and then hurried away before Shaun could answer.

_God help me,_ she thought, the splinters of their talk digging into her heart while her footsteps echoed through the corridors.

_God help me._

* * *

Time and space bent its way around Quinn as she forced herself through them, and then suddenly she was staggering forward, tripping over her own feet and falling to her knees. The grit of the wasteland rubbed against her fingers, and all at once she felt relieved to be back in the filth of the real world, away from the suffocating, gleaming halls of the Institute.

Hands grabbed at her, patting her down, and she opened her eyes to see Knight-Captain Cade and Casey Shingler looming over her.

“I’m fine,” Quinn said, but Cade waved away her insistences.

“You’ll be fine when I tell you you’re fine.” He pulled her to her feet and led her towards a waiting vertibird. “And I’ll only tell you that when I’ve had a chance to give you a full examination.”

Quinn glanced around and saw a sea of faces, the soldiers assigned to Boston Airport all stopping and staring at her. She couldn’t blame them. It must have been one hell of a light show. And given that she had told Danse to tell Maxson she would try to return back to this place when she was done, it was inevitable that the entire Brotherhood would find out about it.

No, what surprised her the most was that Cade and Casey had been waiting for her at all. Either Maxson had wanted someone there to make sure she was alright, or Cade had taken it upon himself to check on her.

_Or,_ said a nasty voice in her head, _they’re making sure the Institute hasn’t sent back a synth._

Quinn shivered. It was a possibility after all. Thankfully, she’d already talked at length with Nick about synths, and read documents in the Institute about their sleeper agents. The Institute synths _knew_ they were synths. And like the Railroad had told her when she had visited them with Nick, the only ones that didn’t had had their memories wiped and gone on to lead new lives.

Shaking her head, Quinn felt her paranoia leave her. She was being stupid. The talk with Shaun about the child synth had shook her up, that was all.

“Are you alright?” said Cade as he helped her onto the vertibird.

Quinn nodded. “Yeah. Just...teleportation is a weird experience.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Cade replied with a smile, climbing into the aircraft with Casey and signalling for the pilot to take off.

As they shot up into the air, Quinn stared out over the Commonwealth, her thoughts turning to the wastelanders who had lived under the fear of synth replacement for decades. She had the luxury of knowing Nick and learning of the Institute’s tactics. But for the ordinary people, they had no such reprieve.

How many wastelanders had had that same worry and been unable to quell it? How many had acted on their paranoia, killing friends and family, or even themselves?

She dreaded to think.

And then there was another question. How many synths were out there that didn’t know what they were?

The question stayed in her mind all the way through Cade’s examinations, and was only banished when he turned to her, smiling.

“Everything looks in order. Elder Maxson requested your presence when your medical was completed. I suggest you go see him now. I believe Paladin Danse is with him.”

Quinn nodded, and gave her thanks to both Cade and Casey, and then left, wandering through the Prydwen, the whispers of the other soldiers following her. It didn’t take long to reach Maxson, and to her relief, she found Danse waiting for her, his expression unreadable. He coughed, and Maxson turned around.

“I’ve received word that Doctor Li has returned to us,” he said, looking her up and down as he spoke. “How cooperative do you think she’ll be?”

_Straight to business then,_ Quinn thought. Out loud she said, “I managed to persuade her that the Institute is the enemy, not the Brotherhood. So hopefully pretty cooperative.”

“Well done, Knight.” He paused. “We’ve already interrogated her aboard the Prydwen. She’s been under the Institute’s influence for the last decade, and we couldn’t afford to take any chances. As it stands, we’ve decided she’s safe to work with.”

Quinn worked hard to conceal her frown, trying not to jump to conclusions. Had he tortured her?

Maxson seemed to sense her discomfort, and he shook his head. “Interrogate may be the wrong word. She wasn’t harmed, and nor did we bully her. It was merely a way to assess who her loyalties lay with, and whether she could be trusted. But onto other matters.”

He nodded to Danse, and Danse returned the gesture, clearly holding back a smile. All at once, Quinn suspected the paladin may have been fighting her corner while she was away. Maxson’s next words confirmed it.

“Thanks to the success of your reconnaissance efforts, it’s time to advance our operations to the next phase. I want you to report to Proctor Ingram at the airport. She has a special project that requires your immediate attention.”

At the words ‘special project,’ an odd expression of boyish delight flickered over Maxson’s face, but it disappeared so quickly, Quinn wasn’t sure she’d seen it at all.

“Once again, Knight,” he continued, “you don’t fail to impress. Dismissed.”

Both Danse and Quinn saluted, and then left, walking across towards the exit that led to the main outside deck. She could tell he was dying to ask her questions from the way he kept glancing at her, and as the cold, bracing air hit them, she turned to him to tell him how the mission had gone.

“Are you alright?” he asked, before she could open her mouth.

Quinn blinked, caught off guard, and then sighed. “I think so. It was...it was difficult in there. But I…” She stopped, feeling tears prick her eyes. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

Danse nodded and gestured towards the waiting vertibird.

As they walked towards it, Quinn asked, “Elder Maxson seems to have warmed up more towards me since I left. Enough to include me on this ‘special project’ anyway. What did you say to him?”

“What did _I_ say to him?” Danse replied, not quite meeting her eye.

“Yeah, I’m not an idiot, Danse. I didn’t go to law school without learning how to read people.”

“What’s law school?” Danse said, frowning. “Was that where the police did their training?”

“No it’s— _don’t change the subject.”_

Danse shrugged. “Yes, I spoke with him. I told him you could be trusted, and that if there was anyone I would choose to work with me on this project, it would be you.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“That he didn’t doubt it.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow, but Danse had gone pink in the cheeks and didn’t say any more. She half wondered whether or not to push the subject, but then remembered Rachel and Carson’s advice.

_“You can’t help how you feel about a person, but you can control how you respond to it.”_

“So,” said Quinn, awkwardly skimming around the obvious, “what’s this special project, then?”

Danse seemed grateful for the escape, and he grinned at her as they climbed into the vertibird. “You’ll see.”

* * *

_“A huge goddamn robot?”_

Proctor Ingram rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “If you want to put it that way, then yes.”

Next to her, Danse looked mortified. Quinn ignored him.

“What do you need me to do, then?” she said, and then added, “I don’t understand the science stuff behind it, so better keep it simple, ma’am.”

Ingram gave an amused snort. “Fair enough. You’re going to be doing the legwork while my scribes repair Prime. Problem is, he’s banged up pretty bad. The first issue we’re having is his CPU. It’s fragile, and every time we try to feed power to it, it blows itself out.”

_I said keep it simple._

“But you can fix that, right?” Quinn asked, not understanding a word Ingram had just said.

“I wish it was that easy,” Ingram said with a sigh, before rattling out a list of solutions that Quinn also didn’t understand, before moving onto the topic of Doctor Li. “I’ve already spoken to her, but she’s reluctant to work on Prime, for some reason. If you could get her down here to lend a hand with his power system, we can get the big guy moving.”

“Sure thing, ma’am. Where is she?”

“On the Prydwen.”

Quinn saluted Proctor Ingram and left, marching back towards the vertibird they had just evacuated. Danse caught up with her.

“They could have told me this before I hauled my ass down here,” Quinn grumbled. “And why do I have to be the one to convince her anyway? What am I, a family counsellor?”

“Let’s pretend for a moment I know what that is,” Danse said, shooting her a disapproving look, “and move onto your complaints. You’re doing work for a secret project, assigned to you personally by Elder Maxson. As a knight, that is a _huge_ honour. I would have expected this to be given to a knight-sergeant at least. Elder Maxson and Proctor Ingram are placing a lot of trust in you. As am I.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Quinn snapped, feeling too annoyed to accept the compliment. “I know you trust me. And you know I trust you. But don’t expect me to feel appreciative at having to bend to the demands of a self-important scientist with a cactus stuck up her ass.”

“Cactus?”

“Prickly pre-war plant.” Quinn stopped at the vertibird and rubbed her forehead. “Look...sorry. I shouldn’t have been so ratty with you just now. It’s been a difficult day, and all of this is just…I don’t feel honoured for what I’m doing to my son.”

Danse’s expression softened. “Do you want me to talk to her instead?”

“You?” Quinn smirked. “We both know your powers of persuasion leave a lot to be desired.”

He laughed, and she joined in, before giving him a light punch in the arm, regretting it immediately as her knuckles clunked against his armour.

“Come on. Let’s go lean on the old bat.”

* * *

“If you’re here to talk me into working on Liberty Prime, you can forget it.”

Li’s sharp tone cut through the air like a knife, but it didn’t sting as much as her disgusted expression, her arms folded and drawn close to her chest as she looked Quinn up and down.

Quinn sighed. “You said you’d help. Change your mind now that you’re out of the Institute?”

_“You_ neglected to mention that I’d be asked to work on Liberty Prime,” replied Li in a hard voice.

Quinn shrugged. “In all honesty, doctor, I only found out about the robot fifteen minutes ago.”

A deep scowl surfaced on Li’s face. “And I’m supposed to believe that? They wouldn’t send you to the Institute without telling you why they wanted me.”

“Oh, no, they did _exactly_ that. I wasn’t best pleased, let me tell you.”

Doctor Li looked uncertain, but her hesitancy disappeared quickly as she shook her head. “I originally left the Brotherhood because I was tired of being stepped on. I’m not about to allow my creations to be used by you again. I was _forced_ to help design Liberty Prime, and my work was made into a weapon of war.”

“Your work was made into a weapon to reclaim a facility _you_ lost after you asked us to help you get it back,” Danse said, his eyes narrowing.

“Help us protect the Commonwealth,” Quinn said, giving him a glance that said _‘shut up’_ while Li glared at him. The doctor had a soft spot for the vulnerable, and she intended to exploit it. But she couldn’t do that if he started aggravating her. She turned back to Doctor Li and said, “Look at all the good you’ve done in the past. The water purification project-”

“Which you took control of,” Li interrupted.

“And the contents of which we helped distribute,” Danse shot back.

“What?”

“Your project was slow to start with, even after it was completed,” he said, glaring so fiercely at her, Quinn was surprised Li wasn’t shaking. “ _We_ took the purified water and _we_ distributed it out to the people of the Capital Wasteland. Not only that, but _we_ took the purifier back after the Enclave tried to use it to poison all the water in D.C.” He pointed to a scar on the left side of his face. “I bled for your project. Some of my friends _died_ for it. So don’t tell me that we took control of it, as if it was purely for personal gain. If we hadn’t, it wouldn’t have lasted the damn week without being sabotaged by someone else.”

Doctor Li opened her mouth to argue, but Quinn quickly stepped between them.

“Doctor,” she said. “Please. Everything the Brotherhood has done has been with the best intentions. I don’t know what happened with that purifier, because I wasn’t there. But surely you can see that the Institute does not have the same ethics that the Brotherhood does. They are perfectly happy to kill people and destroy lives to complete their experiments, and have no intention of helping those that are on the surface. Doesn’t that bother you?”

The doctor paused, wearing a pained expression. “All those people dying while I was surrounded by food, medicine, and comfort. All those experiments…” Her eyes turned to the floor, and then she looked back at Quinn, her face resigned. She sighed. “You really know how to push my buttons, don’t you? Tell Proctor Ingram to get her scribes ready. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of work to get Liberty Prime back online, but we’ll get it done.”

She pushed past them without another word, her shoes clicking on the metal decking as she walked away. Danse gave Li an ugly look as he watched her go, and then shook his head, turning to Quinn.

“She has a very skewed view of what happened ten years ago,” he said quietly. “Naive, too. She wanted us to leave the Jefferson Memorial after the purifier was activated, because it was supposed to be free water for everyone. What she failed to realise - and _still_ can’t see - is that if we had left, the purifier would have been taken over by raiders or the Enclave, or some other group that would have kept the water for themselves. We took the purifier back from enemy hands, we kept it safe, and we escorted all the merchants who took water out to every settlement in D.C. And we _still_ guard that damn purifier, even to this day.”

Danse breathed out heavily through his nose.

“Where did you get the scar?” Quinn asked.

“At the Jefferson Memorial. We fought alongside Liberty Prime, stormed the building, and did our best to push back against the Enclave while Sarah Lyons and the vault dweller from 101 stopped the purifier from self-destructing. I took a bad hit to the head, and my helmet cracked inwards, slicing open my face.”

“You have absolutely no luck with helmets, do you?” she said, grinning. “Another vault dweller, though?”

Danse shrugged. “I never knew her. Never even saw her. To me, she was just someone who helped us reclaim the purifier, and who also fought at Adams Air Force Base, too. But credit where it’s due, she was a hell of a fighter, and the Brotherhood wouldn’t have succeeded without her. She had a knack for getting things done...a lot like you, really.”

He smiled at her, and Quinn felt her stomach flip.

She smiled back, and nodded in the direction of where Doctor Li had gone. “I suppose we should find out what Ingram has in store for us. Then maybe we can take a break before we head back out again.”

Danse shook his head, looking tired. “I doubt it. No rest for the weary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning. She's amazing. :D
> 
> And sorry again that I haven't been replying to comments lately. I've been super busy with work to the point that when I was doing my final proofread last night, I fell asleep. That's why the chapter is out today and not yesterday. So sorry for that, too. -_-
> 
> The immortal child synth thing is something I wanted to address, because that conversation does actually appear in the game, and it's never actually a thing you can talk with Father about. That and I wanted to talk about synth aging as well, since it's heavily debated in the Fallout fandom. I am of the mind that Gen 3 synths CAN age, because what good is a sleeper agent for infiltration if it stays eternally young?
> 
> Also, I wanted to talk a lil' bit about Father in general. He's a dick, but...well. I'm not without sympathy for him. The same way I think of Maxson. Generally, I hate black and white characters. They are boring. Every character needs a little bit of grey in them, whether they're the villain, the protagonist, or somewhere in-between.
> 
> Except for Carson. He is pure and good and can do no wrong.
> 
> :D


	32. Overboard

The morning had started with cheer.

Danse stared out to the ruins of Boston below, running the plan through his head. Actuators, Proctor Ingram had said. _Actuators._

Ingram had explained them thoroughly, and yet Danse still didn’t have a clue what they were. Judging by Quinn’s face during the conversation, neither did she. But what it boiled down to was this: they needed to go to a hospital and collect a high powered magnet.

Now _that_ Danse could understand.

Picking the team had been easy enough. Though they hadn’t so much as discussed it, both he and Quinn had known they would be travelling together. All it had taken was a simple look, and the matter had been decided. As for the rest, well...he trusted her judgement.

“Ooh, I got one,” said Carson, flashing Quinn a smirk.

Maybe his trust had been slightly misplaced.

“Soldier, if I have to hear another of your godforsaken-” Danse began, shaking his head, feeling his frustration mount.

“Oh, don’t worry, sir,” Carson cut in quickly. “I won’t joke about the vertibird. That would be _fowl.”_

Both he and Marguerie groaned, while Quinn and Scribe Shingler sat next to each other, howling with laughter. Quinn had mentioned that she had gone through a phase of tormenting her husband with terrible jokes whenever he annoyed her too much. ‘Puns,’ she called them. Carson had leapt to the challenge, and within seconds the conversation in the vertibird had devolved to nothing but these ‘puns.’

“Sir,” Marguerie said loudly over the giggles, looking as if she doing her best to keep her temper under check, “where are we headed, and how long will it take to get there?”

“Milton General Hospital,” Danse replied. He had made the decision to fly there to save on time, and right now he was thankful for it. “Should only be a few minutes.”

“How about-” began Carson, but the knight-sergeant interrupted him.

“Carson,” snapped Marguerie. “I am sick of your shit. Stop it.”

“Uh oh,” said Quinn, and they all turned to her, Marguerie’s face suggesting that someone was about to get pushed overboard if there was just _one more pun._ Quinn paused, raising an eyebrow. “We better take care of that before we land back at the airport, or you’ll get a _terminal_ illness.”

Shingler burst into a fresh fit of giggles as Marguerie jumped to her feet and said, “For the love of-!”

_“Sir!”_

Kapraski’s voice from the cockpit cut through the mirth, but before anyone could react, the vertibird lurched violently to the side, a missile shooting past the passenger bay.

“Marguerie, Carson, miniguns, now!” Danse yelled as he threw himself forward towards the cockpit door. “Kapraski, what is it?”

“Muties! I’ll try and retreat, but- _shit!”_

Danse cursed as the aircraft dipped again, rocking him back away from the door so that he almost lost his balance completely. The air filled with the sound of gunfire as Carson and Marguerie let loose, and screams from the ground added to the medley. Quinn pulled her helmet on and then clung onto the vertibird for dear life as Kapraski dodged every missile aimed at them. As the aircraft swerved to avoid another one, she yelled something that made Danse’s blood run cold.

“Behemoth!” she shouted, turning to him. “Behemoth! Behemoth!”

“Where?” Danse bellowed back, but it was too late. The huge, ugly mutant stooped, picking up a large slab of shattered concrete, and flung it at them just as another rocket fired their direction.

Explode or be knocked out of the sky. That was the choice. Danse fixed his eyes on Quinn, knowing she couldn’t see him beneath his helmet, wondering if she was looking at him under her’s.

Kapraski chose the rubble. The vertibird veered directly into it, and there was a crunch of metal as the side collapsed inwards, while the missile shot harmlessly past them. At once, a red light began flashing on the console, accompanied by a loud alarm. The aircraft was spinning wildly now, and Kapraski’s frantic voice rang out over the intercom.

“Those of you who can, abandon the ‘bird! She’s going down! Get off, now!”

“What?” Carson said, standing up at once. “If you think I’m leavin-”

Another rock hit the vertibird, smaller this time, but large enough to jolt them. Carson staggered forwards, tripped over the minigun stand, and toppled over the side.

“Carson!” Quinn yelled, reaching out to the space he had once occupied, the panic clear in her voice.

“He’ll be fine!” Marguerie yelled, putting on her helmet and securing it. “Power armour takes the brunt of the impact. Just jump and try to land on your feet if you can! If you can’t, you might still get a little bit hurt at this height!”

Marguerie. She could always be depended on for her cold practicability.

With that, she stepped off the aircraft and dropped from sight.

“Quinn, go, now!” Danse yelled, clinging onto the vertibird frame as they whirled wildly about, Kapraski still fighting to keep them in the air. He watched as Quinn peered over the side, and realised she had never been prepped for a full power armour drop. At once he knew her instinct would overshadow her sense. Not that he blamed her. They were rising up, trying to get out of range of the super mutants positioned on top of the nearby buildings and skyscrapers. It was a frightening leap of faith to take.

“I can’t!” she shouted back. “It’s too high! I ca-”

Danse stepped forward and rammed her with his shoulder, sending her flying out into the open air. He could sense the betrayal in her, and hoped she would forgive him. But he would rather her live and hate him than stay on the vertibird. They were notorious for their high casualty rate; once the pilot lost control, it was near impossible to land the aircraft safely. Only the best lancers had ever managed a safe emergency landing, and even then they had not walked away unscathed.

“Sir, you need to go!”

Scribe Shingler gave Danse a hard glare as she sat on the floor, clutching at the minigun stand, her face ashy grey, but determined.

Danse’s mind went blank.

Marguerie, Quinn, and Carson were secure, for now. He would be relatively safe, too, once he left the ship. His armour would protect him. He could not say the same for Lancer Kapraski and Scribe Shingler.

It was happening again. His choice to fly directly over to the Milton General Hospital, his choice to allow a field scribe to come with them, _his_ goddamn choices. Two people would be lost on his orders if he didn’t think quickly, and another three might already be dead if they had landed in the wrong position. Images of Cutler and all the other deaths Danse had caused flashed through his head, accompanied by a sharp pain.

“Sir!”

Shingler’s voice brought him back with a bump.

“I’m not in the habit of abandoning my team members!” he shouted over the siren and fading gunfire. “There must be a way to-”

“Casey and I are going to die, sir,” said Kapraski’s voice over the intercom, calm and yet somewhat strained. “We can’t jump, and we won’t survive the impact. Please leave.”

“But-”

“Go _now!”_ Shingler yelled at him. “Don’t waste your life trying to be noble; just _go!”_

Danse opened his mouth to argue.

“Sorry, sir,” came Kapraski’s voice again, “but I don’t want you on my conscience.”

The vertibird gave its most violent lurch yet, a manoeuvre that Danse suspected was deliberate on Kapraski’s part. Had he been prepared for it, he may have been able to hold on. Instead, Danse lost his grip and tumbled from the aircraft.

* * *

Quinn was falling.

Skyscrapers whipped past her in a brown and grey blur, the ground approaching like a vast, final statement that spelled the end of her life. She screamed and screamed as she plummeted to the earth, terror exploding within her, crackling all the way to her fingertips, her throat burning and her heart pounding so hard she thought it might stop.

_Land on your feet._

“How?!” Quinn screeched to the open air, as if it was capable of giving a response.

_Land on your feet, if you can._

Common sense grappled with her panic, and Quinn flailed her arms and legs, trying to right herself as the ground swiftly approached. She had no idea what she was doing, but the suit seemed to have some sort of mechanism within it that gave it balance, because her frantic movements, far from having no effect, shifted her body into a safer position.

There was a _boom_ as her feet hit the floor, dust rushing up from the impact, the shock sending a low pain through her legs.

Quinn stood stock still, unable to breathe, unable to move. Her heart was trying to break out of her ribcage, each heavy pump a physical reminder that she was alive. She had _survived._

Behind her, the vertibird hit the top of an apartment complex with a crash of screeching metal.

Her mind was whirling. What had just happened? What had just _happened?_ It was all a blur, the events moving too fast for Quinn to focus on them. She had fallen, but she was still here. Had Carson landed safely, too? Rachel?

_Danse?_

He had pushed her from the aircraft. _Pushed her._ Probably saved her, too. But God, it was all too _quick_ to see.

“Quinn!”

Quinn turned around to see a small crater in the old sidewalk. In its centre was Rachel Marguerie. At once, Quinn snapped back into her senses. She was alive, and so was Rachel. Help Rachel. Find the others.

_Get a hold of yourself._

Quinn ran over to see Rachel struggling on her back, her helmet lying next to her.

“The drop fucked it up big style,” Rachel said before Quinn could speak. “Legs are gone, helmet circuitry is fried, and the chest plate is toast, too. Turn me onto my front so I can get out. And make it quick. We could have company soon.”

Quinn did as she was asked, grunting with effort as she moved the knight-sergeant over. There was a clunk and a hiss, and the armour opened up to reveal Rachel’s burly body. She struggled out, swearing and muttering as she went, and then sat up, panting.

“Are you hurt?” Quinn asked, helping her stand.

“No,” Rachel replied, picking up her rifle off the ground and inspecting it. “But even if I was, it doesn’t matter. No time for crying over a bit of pain when you’re on the battlefield.” She made a noise of irritation and threw the bent rifle away, and instead leaned forward and pulled a combat knife and a pistol off her broken amour, putting them into a sheath on her boot and a holster on her leg, respectively. They looked as if she had fashioned them herself, and Quinn noticed there was another pistol on a separate holster on her other leg.

“Non-standard equipment?” Quinn said, indicating to Rachel’s gear.

“You know it.” Rachel grinned. “I hate power armour. Clunky. Annoying. Loud. I much prefer a Stealth Boy and a bit of good, traditional close quarters combat. For missions like these I’m required to wear my armour, but back when I was doing recon with Danse and the old crowd, you can be damn sure they sent me in first to slit a few throats while they distracted the enemy with obnoxiously loud gunfire.”

With a shiver, Quinn thought that Rachel seemed a little too happy about the idea of cutting someone’s neck open, but she let it slide. The knight-sergeant was an odd character, but not a bad person. Just perhaps too fond of her work.

“We need to find-” Quinn began, but her sentence was cut off as she saw a red flare leap up from the site of the vertibird crash. “Look! They’re still alive!”

Rachel looked less than enthusiastic at this revelation.

“For how long?” she said, rechecking her weapons were secure and then turning to Quinn. “The skyscrapers are full of mutants. Even if they aren’t being torn apart by them right now, we still have to fight to get there alive ourselves. And that’s if they don’t bleed out first.”

“But Danse will head there, and so will Carson. If anything, isn’t it worth investigating so we can regroup?”

The knight-sergeant gave a snort of laughter. “You clearly don’t know Danse as well as I do. He’s cold. Bit of a bleeding heart underneath it all, but when we’re in the field, he puts logic before emotion, as he _should.”_

Quinn was not as convinced by this proclamation as Rachel was. She shook her head. “He’s not as harsh as you think. He wouldn’t just leave people to die if they’re obviously still alive.” She pointed to the red flare smoke. “And at least one of them is _obviously_ still alive! But whether you or Danse choose to go or not, I am. I don’t leave friends to bleed out or be eaten by goddamn mutants.”

Quinn marched off, feeling less confident than she sounded, but determined all the same. She had heard the horror stories of what the mutants did to people, heard the anguish in Danse’s voice as he talked about Cutler. She couldn’t leave Kapraski and Casey to such a fate.

To her greatest surprise, the knight-sergeant fell into step with her.

“You’re right. Carson will go after Kapraski, and we need to regroup to continue our mission. As for Danse…” Rachel sighed. “Let’s hope he’s softer than I remember.”

* * *

**_ 2280 _ **

“Good god, what happened to you?”

Danse rose from the table as Arthur Maxson approached, half of his face swaddled with blood stained bandages. Arthur shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, but there was a small, self-satisfied smirk lurking underneath all the gauze.

“Haven’t you heard yet?” said Cutler from behind the teenager. “Took on a deathclaw by himself.”

Danse frowned. “Knight, that is the most reckless thing I’ve ever h-”

“And _won.”_

His anger died in his mouth, instead letting it hang open as he gawked at Arthur. The boy’s smirk turned into a wide grin, before he hissed with pain and jerked his hand up towards his face.

“Serves you right,” Danse said curtly, but when Arthur flinched at his frown, he smiled. “I’ll save the lecture this time. That is a feat worthy of the codex.”

“You, save a lecture?” Cutler grinned down at the boy. “Make a habit of killing deathclaws, Knight, and maybe you can spare us all from Danse’s grumbling wisdom.”

They all laughed, Danse included, and seated themselves back at the table, Arthur and Cutler placing their trays down next to Danse’s. He watched with some amusement as Arthur tried to eat, wincing and muttering to himself with every movement of his face.

Others joined them, some known to Danse, but most of them strangers. Recruitment had increased threefold since the war with the Enclave to fill the gaps left behind by the dead. The result was droves of young faces that Danse didn't know.

He stabbed at the food on his tray, wondering how Marguerie was doing. Last time he had seen her, she had been waddling the halls, heavily pregnant, leaving to start a new life on one of the secure settlements. In his own way, he missed her - not that he’d ever admit it. She took great delight in teasing him, much to Cutler’s pleasure.

The talk quickly turned to the deathclaw, and the chunk it had taken out of Arthur’s face. Arthur was clearly enjoying the attention, the praise being borne from his own merits rather than his name, and Danse smiled to himself at the boy’s excitement.

One of the initiates leaned over, his eyes wide.

“Looks like an improvement,” he said, grinning. Arthur grinned back before grumbling in pain.

A knight-sergeant moved forward, grabbing the initiate by the scruff of the neck, and yanked him back with such force his dinner tray skidded off the table and landed with a clatter on the floor.

“That is Arthur Maxson,” snapped the knight-sergeant in a loud voice that drew the attention of the nearest tables. “You address him properly or not at all.”

The initiate’s face went white, his mouth falling open with horror as he stared at Arthur. He scrambled to his feet, picking up the tray and spilt food, stammering out a string of apologies, before scurrying away.

“Sir,” said the knight-sergeant with a nod, before returning to his own meal.

Arthur, meanwhile, had gone bright red beneath his bandages and sunk so low in his seat his chin was nearly touching the table.

Danse sighed to himself. Every chance the boy had at a normal friendship was consistently spoiled in some shape or form. He opened his mouth to say something - what exactly, he didn't know - when the facility-wide intercom crackled to life.

Everyone froze.

The intercom was only ever activated in the most serious of situations. The last time it had been used was just under a year ago, to announce the passing of Elder Owyn Lyons. A sombre day, but not wholly unexpected. His daughter, Sarah Lyons had risen to take his place.

There was a pause as the intercom continued to crackle, and then suddenly the choked voice of Senior Scribe Rothchild rang out.

“It is my...my deepest regret to inform you that Elder Lyons has been killed in the course of duty. She…”

Danse heard no more, his head snapping towards Arthur. The boy sat up straight, rigid in his seat, looking like the small child that had approached him three years ago in the dorms.

“Arthur,” Danse said softly.

Arthur shook his head, his fists tightening until his knuckles were white. Gone was the shocked look of a child, replaced by a cold, hard expression that Danse had never seen before.

“Arthur,” he repeated, a little more urgently, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Arthur shrugged him off and stood so violently his chair tipped over with a loud bang.

Everyone was looking at him. He took a few deep breaths, determinedly avoiding their eyes, and then stormed away without so much as a word.

Danse and Cutler glanced at each other, Cutler biting his lip with concern.

“Should we…?” he asked, nodding in the direction of where the boy had gone.

“I’ll go. Last thing he’ll want is to be crowded.” Danse set off, navigating around the bustle of the other soldiers, the talk of Sarah Lyons buzzing through his ears. He’d always had mixed opinions of the Lyons’ leadership. While he felt that caring for wastelanders was a noble goal, it detracted from the purpose of the Brotherhood. Wastelanders could look after themselves. He should know. Coddling them was a distraction at best, and diverted precious resources away from the preservation of technology.

Arthur, though...he had always been fond of Sarah. And in her own way, Danse suspected she had been fond of him. She’d had less time for him after she had become Elder, but had always tried to check on him, when she could.

Now, like Krieg, she was gone.

Danse found Arthur exactly where he thought he would: in his room in a section of the Citadel isolated away from the rest of the soldiers. The boy was sitting on the floor in the corner, his knees drawn to his chest, face buried into his legs. Around him were scattered possessions, old toys and pieces of wasteland clutter, much of it now dented or broken.

Danse walked over and sat on the end of Arthur’s bed, and waited in silence. This was not a topic that could be breached by him. The power lay with the young, grieving boy on the floor. They sat in silence together for an age, Danse staring at the wall, the quiet broken only by Arthur’s laboured breathing and an occasional snuffling sound.

Eventually, he spoke.

“What do you want?” Arthur asked, sounding every little bit like the boy he was. He peered up at Danse, his eyes red and puffy.

Danse shrugged. “To check you were alright, sir.”

He realised his mistake as soon as he had said it, but it was too late to take it back.

Arthur went off like a bomb. He jumped to his feet, gesturing wildly at Danse, eyes bulging in their sockets as he yelled, “Don’t call me that! Don’t call me _that!_ My name is _Arthur!”_

On the last word, Arthur kicked an old toy car on the floor, and it shot past Danse’s head, whizzing across the room and hitting the far side wall, taking a chunk out of the plaster.

“I just want to be normal!” he shrieked, kicking at everything in sight. “I just want _friends!”_ He picked up a pile of papers from his desk and threw them on the floor. “I just want...I want…”

“Sarah,” said Danse finished for him quietly.

Arthur stopped, swaying on the spot, and then fell to his knees, his shoulders shaking as he scratched his fingernails on the tiled floor. The boy wouldn’t cry again, but Danse suspected he was extremely close. He moved off the bed and crouched down next to him, hesitating before placing a gentle hand on his back.

This time, Arthur didn’t shake him off, and after a few moments, his tremors stopped. He drew in a long breath, exhaling heavily, and then said, “Why did she have to leave me? Why did she have to go, like mom and dad?”

Danse sighed. “I don’t know.”

* * *

“Are you alright?”

_I don’t know._

“Sir!”

A groan escaped Danse’s lips as he fought the pain in his head. His landing had been a bad one, and while he hadn’t been knocked unconscious, he was finding it difficult to focus. Everything felt fuzzy, his irritation mounting as the person at his side continually shook his shoulder, apparently oblivious to the responses trapped in his mind.

“I don’t know,” he managed, and then shook his head, regretting it instantly as the pain intensified. He forced open his eyes to see Knight Carson bent over him, wide-eyed and ashy skinned.

“Sir, the vertibird,” Carson babbled, either not hearing or not caring what Danse’s answer had been, “it crashed on top of a nearby building, but I saw a flare. They’re still alive, sir! We need to go, now!”

 _They won’t be alive for long,_ he thought, but decided not to voice it. Carson seemed on the border of hysterical already. Instead, he said, “Help me up.”

Carson obeyed, and when Danse glanced around for his rifle, he picked it up and handed it to him. Then Danse blinked, realising he could feel the breeze on his skin. “Where’s my helmet?”

Carson pointed to a badly dented piece of metal on the floor. “I took it off to check you had no head injuries, but I think it broke in the fall.”

“You _think?”_ Danse replied sarcastically, wincing as the pain stabbed in his forehead again. The thing was clearly beyond repair. “Proctor Teagan will block me if I try to request another one.” He sighed. At least it hadn’t been the rifle Quinn had made him. That was irreplaceable.

“Sir,” Carson said, snapping him back to reality. “Please. We need to get to the tower. We need to save Tom and Casey.”

Danse looked over at the crash site, the red smoke of the flare still clear in the sky. If another vertibird came in to investigate, it could be shot down as well. And knowing Quinn, she at least would head over to the site to try and help; whether Marguerie would follow was another matter. Danse didn’t care. He’d let his team down again. Now he was being given a chance to make it right.

“Come on,” Danse said. “We have to hurry.”

* * *

“If we go in there, we’ll die! You’re thinking about this emotionally, Carson! Fighting through that building is fucking suicide. And even if we somehow make it, the likelihood is they’re dead already. Going in there is risking far too much for such little chance of an actual payoff—”

“Payoff? You’re talking about people’s lives, you cold bitch!” Carson yelled back, almost nose to nose with Rachel. Even in his power armour, he was only just a head taller than her. Quinn glanced from one to the other, and decided to stay out of the argument for the moment.

“I’m talking about _our_ lives,” Rachel snapped, apparently less concerned with the insult and more angry at his refusal to back down. “I’ve been in super mutant hives. I’ve seen what happens in there. And I know that when someone ends up in one of those things, they won’t be coming back out of it again. When we went to get Cutler—”

_“Enough.”_

Danse, who had been surveying the complex and ignoring the shouting match, now suddenly turned to face them, fury etched into his face.

“But—” began Rachel.

“I said enough!”

Both Knight and Knight-Sergeant froze; Rachel stood to attention, while Carson simply looked on, his expression one of desperate hope.

“Marguerie, you should know better than to make such a racket right outside of an enemy stronghold.”

Rachel flushed but said nothing.

“And Knight,” Danse said, rounding on Carson. “This is no place to lose your head. You’ll get yourself killed, and possibly the rest of your team, too. You might disagree with Knight-Sergeant Marguerie, but she’s above your rank, and holds a lot more experience. While the ultimate decision is mine, I trust her judgement. So when she tells you something, you damn well listen to her.”

Rachel shot Danse a grateful glance but still didn’t speak. Carson, however, looked shattered.

“Sir,” he croaked. “Please. Don’t let him die. _Please.”_

Quinn kept quiet, watching the entire scene from the sidelines. Her heart ached for Carson, and for the two trapped at the crash site, but she could see the weight in Rachel’s words. And there were her own personal ghosts attached to the building; she didn’t know if she was ready to face them. Yet one look at Carson’s face was enough for her to know she didn’t want to add to the dead already bound to this place.

“Paladin Danse,” Quinn said, walking over. “If it helps with your decision, I know the layout of this apartment complex like the back of my hand.”

Danse turned to her, his expression one of being offered an escape. “You do?”

“Yes. I’ll explain later, but right now, I can tell you how to get up to the roof as quickly as possible, so long as the stairwells haven’t collapsed over the last two centuries.” She gave a quick outline on the route to the stairwell that ran the length of the structure, the other three soldiers all listening intently.

When she had finished, Danse frowned, glancing up at the top of the building again, and under his breath Quinn heard him mutter, “Not another one.”

He turned to the others. “Marguerie, standard tactics. Scout ahead, stay out of sight, and when we engage, take out any vulnerable marks, or any who look like they give the orders.”

Rachel nodded.

“You’re quick to change your tune,” Carson snapped, glaring at her.

“I don’t think we should be doing this, period,” Rachel shot back. “But we are, so I’m gonna give it my all. And _if_ we’re too late, you can be damn sure I’ll put them down myself.”

“Knight-Sergeant,” Danse said as Carson opened his mouth to argue, “if I have to tell you to hold your tongue again, you won’t be a knight-sergeant when we get back to the Prydwen. I expect this behaviour from initiates, not _you.”_

Rachel looked as if she very much wanted to tell Danse she didn’t think they’d make it back to the Prydwen at all, but she simply gave a sharp nod. “Understood, sir.”

“And Carson,” Danse said, turning so that he loomed over the knight, “step out of line again and I will cancel this operation. I can’t trust this to go smoothly when you continually bicker before we’ve so much as stepped through the door.”

Unlike Rachel, who had seemed simply irritated by Danse’s orders, Carson shrank away from the paladin’s authority, shamefaced.

“This is going against my common sense,” Danse went on, “and if you push me, I won’t hesitate to withdraw everyone. You follow my orders to the letter, even if that order is a retreat. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Carson straightened up, his face hardening. Quinn highly doubted Danse would really abandon Kapraski and Casey, but if lying about it kept Carson from falling prey to his emotions, then it was worth it.

“Right.” Danse checked over his rifle. “Quinn, cover the rear. Marguerie, you go on ahead. We’ll follow shortly. Deactivate any traps you come across. Standard procedure.”

“Yes, sir.” Rachel pulled a bulky, rectangular device from her pocket and hit the button. A second later, she was gone.

Quinn’s mouth fell open.

“Stealth Boy,” said Rachel’s voice, though Quinn couldn’t see the source. “Old world tech. Pretty damn useful. Stay safe, kids. I’ll see you soon.”

Quinn heard the sound of footsteps, and she saw an odd ripple in the air, like heat rising from a scorching desert road. Then both sound and sight were gone, and the three remaining soldiers were left alone.

They stood in silence for around two minutes. No noise came from within.

“If we’re lucky,” Danse said in a low voice, “they may not know we’re here. They haven’t attacked us so far, so either they’re distracted by the vertibird, or they didn’t hear any of the arguing. But don’t underestimate them. Stay alert and don’t get sloppy. Remember, Marguerie and potentially two others of our own are in there. Shooting first and asking questions later could kill any one of them.”

He looked from Quinn to Carson, and then nodded.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

The ascent was like fighting their way up from the depths of Hell.

Blood covered the walls and floor, bags of rotting meat dripping juices hung off thick metal chains as the yellow-green monsters screamed and thrashed, protecting their precious hive. The smell of decay and iron was thick in the air, worming its way through the filtration system of Quinn’s helmet, until she was nearly gagging with the stench.

Danse, without his helmet, was not faring much better.

They made it to the stairwell, killing everything in their way with ease. The paladin’s experience, coupled with the lethal swiftness of Rachel Marguerie, and Carson’s sheer determination to make it to Kapraski, meant that they cut through the super mutant forces like a knife through rancid flesh. But the battle was clearly taking its toll.

At first, Danse had just been pale, yelling out his orders as the mutants had swarmed around them, always managing to be one step ahead of their advances. But when the first wave had been dealt with, and they’d forced their way into the stairwell, Quinn had heard the wheezing quality of his breathing, and saw the distant look in his eyes. If he wasn’t already having a flashback, he was definitely on the verge.

“Carson, go ahead and check there’s nothing waiting for us,” Quinn ordered. “You too, Rachel!”

Rachel—whose Stealth Boy had long since worn off—raised an eyebrow and turned to Danse. “Sir?”

“Do what she says,” he said, his voice tainted with a gasping quality.

Rachel’s frown deepened, and she stepped towards him. “Danse, you alright?”

“Fine. Took a knock. No damn helmet. Go scout ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The frown on her face didn’t falter, and her eyes trailed briefly towards Quinn. But then she nodded and signalled to Carson to follow her. “Come on, kid. We got our orders.”

The second they rounded the corner and out of sight, Danse leaned heavily against the wall, gasping for breath, while Quinn grabbed at his arm, trying to stop him toppling straight over.

“Hey.” She pulled her own helmet off and let it drop to the floor with a clunk. “I got you. It’s alright.”

“That’s valuable equipment, soldier. Try not to break it.” He tried to force a smile but failed.

“My helmet consumption is better than yours, sir.” It was a stupid joke, but it was all she could think of to try and keep the conversation flowing. When he didn’t respond, she gave him a little shake. “Danse, you’re here with me. Not in D.C. We’re in the Commonwealth, and we’re going to save some lives. But to do that, I need you to stay with me.”

Danse took a few deep breaths, shutting his eyes and blindly reaching out for her hand. She knew he wouldn’t be able to feel her grip in his armour, and yet he clung onto her all the same, slowing his breathing down until some of the colour returned to his cheeks. When he opened his eyes again, he gave her a small smile and a nod.

“Danse,” Quinn said quietly, uncertain if it was the time and place for such a conversation. “This didn’t happen in Fort Strong, which means you’re getting worse. When are you going to accept you need help?”

As she thought he would, Danse brushed her off. “Not now, Quinn.”

“Yes _now,_ Danse,” she replied, holding onto him as he tried to move away. “Because this isn’t the time for flashbacks and yet—”

“Sir!” came Carson’s voice from the floor above, a note of panic in it.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Danse wrenched himself free of Quinn and sprinted up the stairwell, leaving her alone. She picked up her helmet, jammed it back on, and set off after him, anger bubbling within her. This was going past pride now and into something much more dangerous. Whether she could act on her concerns, though, or simply keep trying to persuade him to face his damn problems—

A pair of meaty hands shot out from a door on the stairwell, trying to drag her into the next room. Quinn gave a yell, struggling and pulling back, and the mutant followed her, clamping its fingers around her neck, just under her helmet, cutting off her cries for help. She fought harder, the pain mounting in her throat as the fingers dug in, and then suddenly both of them were toppling backwards down the stairs.

Each step jolted through her with a bang, the snarling face of the mutant pressed up against her own as it clung to her neck. Pinpricks of light were appearing in her eyes, the edges of her sight darkening as the life was slowly throttled from her.

“Quinn!”

The mutant jerked, releasing the pressure on her, and its blood rained down as a slice of metal slashed across its throat. It crumpled onto her without ceremony, and Quinn was blinded as its blood clouded her visor. A hand wiped at her helmet, revealing the glorious sight of Rachel Marguerie.

“You alright?” she said, but before Quinn could answer, Danse practically shoved Rachel out of the way, kneeling next to Quinn. He dragged the dead mutant off her and helped her sit up, removing her helmet with care. Then he moved down the flexible metal mesh layer of the armour to check the marks on Quinn’s neck, while she rasped and choked for breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think to...I didn’t see…”

“S’fine,” Quinn wheezed. Talking was agony, and she was surprised her oesophagus hadn’t collapsed completely. “My fuck up. Didn’t check either. Wasn’t careful.” She gestured up towards the ceiling. “S’not big deal. Focus on...others.”

Danse nodded and helped her up, while Rachel passed Quinn her helmet and combat rifle.

“Close call,” she said, rapping Quinn’s armour with her knuckles, before crouching down and wiping her knife on the rags of the dead super mutant. “Still want to continue, sir?”

“Yes,” Danse replied, eyeing the stairwell carefully. “I just need to stick to my own damn rules and _focus.”_

“Sir,” Carson piped up, looking nervous. “The others…”

Danse glanced at Quinn again, his eyes searching over her as if trying to find a hidden injury, and then reloaded his rifle. “Let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thank you to Fallendawn (tumblr) for his help with the damn puns.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to aelodrea, who requested I write a scene with Quinn tormenting Danse with puns. I decided to give it a go.
> 
> All in all, I've been excited for this chapter, and I'm very excited for the ones that follow. It's my first big test as to how well I've managed to establish my own characters in the Fallout-verse. So, I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I've enjoyed writing it.


	33. Baby, it's Cold Outside

The sunlight was near blinding as the group burst out onto the roof, the howls of the mutants now mere background noise as they mowed them down with gunfire.

Quinn did not expect to see Casey Shingler, every trace of her shy, bumbling nature gone, armed with a stolen rifle and shooting everything in sight.

With deadly aim and the grace and conviction of a seasoned predator, she moved unfazed through the chaos that whirled around her. But the sheer numbers of the enemy had clearly been overwhelming her, as she had retreated right back to the vertibird, leaving a trail of death in her wake.

They watched as she threw down the rifle, apparently now empty, and move even further away, pulling out a pistol as she edged towards the shattered remains of the cockpit.

“Case!” Carson yelled, firing into the advancing group of mutants.

They turned their stupid, ugly faces towards Carson, and Casey took her chance, unloading the pistol into as many of them as she could, before one of them picked her up by the neck, shaking her like a dog with a rabbit. She pulled a knife out from the depths of her pockets and gave a strangled shriek as she plunged the blade into its throat.

The mutant dropped her as it staggered away, gurgling, and Casey hit the floor, howling with pain as she clutched at her ribs.

“Holy shit,” said Quinn, taken aback. None of the others seemed surprised, though, and they quickly fell upon the remaining mutants, making short work of them before they could attack Casey again.

There was little time for celebration, however. As Danse put a bullet in the last one’s head, Carson finally lost his cool, sprinting towards the vertibird, completely ignoring the shouts of Rachel Marguerie.

“Tom!” he bellowed, throwing his weapon down, barely giving Casey a glance as he circled the wreckage, looking for a way inside. “Tom!”

“He’s still alive,” Casey said, slowly pulling herself up, wheezing. “And I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“I know you’re fine,” Carson snapped. “You just razed an entire army of these freaks by yourself, for fuck’s sake.” He glanced over at her, looking on the edge of reason. “Where is he? Have you seen him?”

“He’s still inside, but-”

Carson listened no more, and began clambering up towards the crumpled cockpit, still yelling Kapraski’s name. Danse followed him, thrusting his gun into Quinn’s hands as he vaulted up onto the vertibird.

“What happened, Casey?” Quinn asked, watching the two men fight their way up, slipping and sliding on the distorted aircraft. The scribe didn’t answer immediately, her breathing laboured and shallow, her hand clutched at the side of her chest.

“Tom barely managed to land the ship without it exploding.” Casey nodded at the vertibird. “But it’s, well...you can see the damage. I was wedged in the holding bay enough that I didn’t suffer too much from the impact. Bump to the head, maybe a broken rib, but nothing major.”

“You can move with a goddamn broken rib?” Quinn gawked. “I thought scribes were intellectuals, not fucking commandos.”

“I was a wastelander before I was a scribe,” Casey replied, shrugging and then wincing a little. “You learn to defend yourself out here, or you die. Plus, the adrenaline helped. I’m starting to feel it more now. That being said…” She gave the pistol on the floor an odd look. “I didn’t think we were gonna make it.”

“Well, we got here just in time.”

Casey nodded. “You did. A minute longer and you would have been too late.” Her expression darkened. “I wasn’t going to let either of us be taken alive by those things.”

A shiver rippled through Quinn as she looked down at the discarded pistol as well. “...And Kapraski?”

As if on cue, Carson’s anguished wail cut across the discussion, and Casey cringed.

“Not good. I couldn’t move him myself, but with your power armour…”

Quinn nodded, giving both her weapon and Danse’s to Casey, and then set off up the vertibird herself. Danse scanned the cockpit, his face visibly paling, though his expression remained the same. When Quinn caught up with him, she saw why.

If she hadn’t known it was Kapraski, Quinn would have thought they’d found the wrong person. His face was so bloody and battered, it had swollen out of proportion, and there were deep lacerations all across his skin, some of the glass that had caused the cuts still embedded in place. Heavy bruising dappled around a gash on Kapraski’s forehead, where she guessed he had hit his head on impact, but the injuries were so many, Quinn wasn’t sure which was the most serious.

However, when l she peered fully inside the remains of the ship Quinn realised why Casey hadn’t been able to move him. The metal frame of the vertibird had been crumpled inwards so badly it resembled a tin can that had been run over by a bike. The frame buckled in on Kapraski’s legs, pinning him in place.

Carson stared down at Kapraski, his helmet long since abandoned, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Knight,” said Danse, tearing his eyes away from the battered lancer and fixing his gaze on him instead.

Carson did not respond.

“Carson!”

Carson flinched and looked up. Danse pointed to the metal twisted against Kapraski.

“We need to move this now. Take hold of that side, and I’ll take hold of this one. When I say go, we pull.”

Carson blinked, his face ashen, his eyes unfocused.

Danse slammed his hand down on a bent panel next to Carson, making everyone jump. “Knight, that’s an order! You want him to live? Then start acting like it and help me!”

These words seemed to strike a chord within Carson, and he flared to life at once. “Yes, sir!” He grabbed the wreckage, and when Danse gave the command, pulled with all his might.

 A horrible grind of metal on metal resounded through the vertibird, and then slowly but surely, the warped frame began to pry apart, the ruined cockpit relenting to the will of the two men. There was a deep snapping sound, and the splintered frame broke free. Quinn helped them throw it away, and it slid off the apartment complex with a bang, before tumbling down into the city below.

None of them paid it any attention. They all stared inside the vertibird, silent with the exception of Carson, who let out a low, horrified moan.

From the angle of Kapraski’s arm, he had definitely broken it. But that paled in comparison to the state of his leg. While the right had remained relatively unscathed, the left had been crushed by the impact, now a mangled mess that barely resembled flesh and bone, let alone a functioning limb. Blood oozed from the leg at a steady trickle. Quinn dreaded to think how much he had lost.

“Get him out, now!” Danse ordered.

This time, Carson did not hesitate, and between the three of them, they managed to drag Kapraski from the vertibird. His leg trailed behind him, held together by what, Quinn didn’t know.

As they lowered him down to Rachel and Casey, his eyes flickered, and he mumbled, “Liam.”

“Tom!” Carson slid down the side of vertibird so quickly, he nearly sent himself shooting off the building entirely, but caught hold of the aircraft and steadied himself at the last second. He rushed over to Kapraski, and helped lie him down, holding his hand.

“Knight, I need you to guard the entrance to the stairwell,” said Danse, stepping forward and nodding at Rachel and Quinn. “You two as well.”

“Like hell I am,” Carson snarled, wearing an ugly anger that didn’t suit his features. He rose to his feet, squaring up to Danse, and tried to push him back. “I’m not moving from—”

Danse grabbed his wrist, wrenching it away, and then slammed Carson against the vertibird with a rattling bang. Quinn expected to see anger in Danse’s face, but instead saw only an air of patience. When Danse spoke, his voice was firm, but also calm, with a hint of kindness.

“Carson, Tom needs care _now._ Between myself and Shingler, we will do what we can, but you’re in no state to help us. Right now the best way you can assist is for you and the others to guard the fire exit and make sure nothing else comes up to greet us. I need to leave my armour to treat him, and I won’t be any good to him if I’m shot dead. Can you do that for me?”

Carson stared down at the limp body of Kapraski and bit his lip, and then after a brief silence, nodded. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Good man.” Danse released him and clapped him on the shoulder, before turning to Rachel. He pulled out a flare gun from his armour and tossed it to her. “Marguerie, signal for another pick up. I don’t doubt they saw the first, but a second flare might reinforce our pressing need for assistance.”

Without waiting to see if she obeyed, Danse left his armour and crouched down next to Casey, cleaning his hands with an alcohol rub from one of the pouches on her uniform, and then setting to work on Kapraski.

Between them, they pulled his lancer’s jacket off, tore away the arm, and fashioned it into a makeshift tourniquet, fastening it tightly around his left thigh. Almost immediately, the blood dribbled away to nothing.

However, they couldn’t stop Kapraski stirring as they worked, his hazy consciousness quickly devolving into agonised, panicked screaming as they applied the jacket sleeve, before vomiting all over himself.

“Carson!” yelled Danse, apparently changing his mind as he tried to turn the struggling lancer on his side to stop him choking on his own sick. “I need you here to keep him calm, if you can!”

Carson didn’t need telling twice. He left his own armour in a rush, tripping over himself as he dashed over. He took the remains of the jacket and cleaned away the vomit as best he could, and then took Kapraski’s hand, squeezing it tight as he babbled out a string barely coherent words, begging him to hold on, that it would be alright, that he would be fine, that—

Quinn tried to tune it out. She felt like she was intruding on something private, but the screams of Kapraski lessened with Carson’s presence, and she threw sneaking glances while she watched the stairwell entrance, to check on their progress. Kapraski himself flicked from excruciating awareness to passing out from the pain.

Between the paladin and the scribe, they managed to slow the worst of the bleeding, cleaned a majority of his wounds, and administered a stimpak to the base of his skull. Quinn recognised it as the same procedure given to Danse when he had earned himself a concussion in the Slog.

Finally, after an agonising wait, the familiar grinding hum of a vertibird engine sounded in the distance, and it loomed over the horizon, its miniguns dealing with the mutants perched on the nearby buildings before they could be shot at. Apparently they had taken the two-flare distress call to heart, and wanted to avoid a repeat performance.

Dust flew up as the vertibird landed, and a team of scribes jumped out, running over to them to see who was wounded.

“Jesus Christ,” the tallest of the group exclaimed, looking from the aircraft wreckage to Kapraski himself. “One of them survived?”

“He’s the only one seriously wounded,” Danse corrected. “The rest of us are unscathed, though we suspect Scribe Shingler may have a broken rib.”

“The rest of you?” The scribe gawked. “Well, shit. He must be one hell of a pilot to get you all through that.” He turned to Quinn and Rachel. “Help me with him, please?”

They loaded Kapraski aboard the new aircraft, Casey joining him at Danse’s insistence to have her ribs checked over. Carson lingered at the threshold, staring intently at Kapraski and Casey for a moment, before glancing back at Quinn and Danse.

“Knight Carson,” Danse said gently. “If you want to leave, you have permission to go with him.”

Gratitude flickered across Carson’s face, but then he looked from Kapraski, to Casey, and back to Danse, and then shook his head.

“You’re a scribe down, and this mission...it’s important.” He stepped away from the vertibird, looking as if he hated himself for what he was about to do. He clenched his fists, and then let out a long, shuddering breath. “If I leave, you’ll be undermanned for the mission, and more people could be hurt. If you abandon the mission, the Institute will continue to exist. So I’m staying, sir.”

“Are you sure?” Quinn asked, and Carson nodded.

“I will make sure the right people hear about this,” Danse said, giving him an approving look. “Your dedication is noteworthy.”

Carson looked as if he didn’t give a damn about it, but he forced a weak smile. “Thank you, sir. And...and sorry for...for…”

“It’s fine. Considering the circumstances, I think you did an excellent job, Knight.”

Carson didn’t answer but turned back towards the assisting vertibird. When it took off, while everyone ducked down to avoid the dust, Carson simply shielded his eyes and watched it fly away, not moving until it disappeared behind a trail of low clouds. He hung his head and stared at his feet.

Quinn walked over and put her arm around him.

“He’ll be fine,” she murmured into his ear. “I saw you skewered and you’re still here. His leg is a mess, sure, but nothing else seemed too bad.”

“His head…” Carson said, still looking at the floor.

“We gave him a stimpak the way a doctor taught us. That will do him a world of good. Next time you’re on the Prydwen, he’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Carson said nothing for a moment, and then reached up and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Thanks.”

He took a deep breath and turned to Danse.

“Sir, what’s our next move?”

Danse seemed momentarily flustered at this shift in mood, but he took it in stride. “Make our way back down to the ground floor and head over to Milton General Hospital for what we need to collect. With any luck, there won’t be any lurking mutants waiting for us inside.” He paused, and then gave Quinn an odd look. “You said you knew this apartment building well. How?”

“I…” Quinn shrugged. “It...my father lived here before the war and I used to visit him a lot after he left my mom. I stopped once I married Nate, but…”

She trailed off, feeling uncomfortable. Everyone stared at her.

Danse frowned, and then his expression softened. “Do you want to go anywhere in the building while we’re here?”

The question caught Quinn by surprise. There was one ghost she’d like to put to rest, but she hadn’t wanted to trouble the others with it. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to face it herself. There were bad memories all around when it came to her father.

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, there is one place.”

* * *

The apartment was exactly as she remembered it.

Well, not exactly. The gaping hole in the living room floor was a new feature, but aside from that, the rest of the layout looked relatively untouched.

They’d had to force the door open, Rachel huffing a little as she watched the others. Thankfully, Quinn’s power armour made short work of the hinges, and as she had stepped over the threshold, she’d been greeted by the familiar, if somewhat staling, smell of beer and cigarettes.

She had _hated_ her father’s drinking habit. Hated that he swilled on beer, parked in front of the television, chain smoking and complaining about the Chinese and the war, while never lifting a finger to help anyone but himself.

That had partly been where her love of whiskey had come from—she’d practically forced it on herself, deciding she would be a _classy_ drinker, not a belching pig like him.

Now, remembering her little mishap on the Prydwen, Quinn wondered if she’d ended up like him anyway. She certainly couldn’t moderate her alcohol intake when the mood took her—classy wasn’t the word to describe it, at any rate.

Sighing, Quinn made her way across the apartment and towards the hole, listening carefully as the floor creaked underneath her feet.

“Rachel, you might want to stay back,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ll survive if the floor caves, but as for you…”

“I figured as much,” Rachel said with a shrug, gesturing to her unarmoured body. “I’ll just keep watch here.”

The other two hovered by the door as well, hesitating to follow. Quinn smiled behind her helmet.

“Danse, Carson...come in if you want. Maybe you’ll find something useful in here.”

“I’ve no intention of looting your father’s home,” Danse replied, but he stepped inside and began investigating an old record player that had been fixed to the wall.

Her dad had loved that piece of junk. It had crackled and skipped through every song, and yet he had refused to throw it out, even after he had left her mom.

Despite herself, Quinn smiled.

With an edge of foreboding, she turned and peered over into the hole below, flicking on her helmet flashlight and illuminating the inky depths. The drop went on for at least several floors, if not further.

Had her father been sat here, drinking his damn beer when the bombs had fallen? Were his bones now lying at the bottom of this rotting pit, surrounded by super mutants and old beer cans?

She felt a dull ache in her chest as she stepped back from the edge. He’d been an asshole nearly all her life. He’d abandoned her. He’d never tried to better himself, never grown out of his selfish ways, never given Nate a _chance._

Shaking her head with disgust, Quinn walked towards the kitchen. Then she stopped, staring at the cupboards.

_“Dad, dad! Look what I made!”_

_“What’s that, sweet pea? You drew that all by yourself?”_

Hanging on the cupboard, right next to the fridge, was a drawing. But not just _any_ drawing. She had given it to him when she was eight years old, a childish scrawl of a cat, its colours a kaleidoscopic mess of waxy crayons. Her mom had often told her that she needed to grow out of using crayons, but her dad…

In the corner, inked with his small, neat writing was her name, her age, and a date. Next to that was another untidy scribble, a signature. Her signature.

_“It’s a work of art, sweet pea. All the best artists sign their work!”_

Quinn reached out to touch the picture, and then thought better of it. Who knew how fragile it was now? She swallowed, a hard lump in her throat, and memories came flooding back.

Teaching her how to ride a bike and how to tie her shoelaces. Showing her how fix her own roller skates when a wheel fell off. Bedtime stories and art lessons. Secret trips to the store to browse all the crayons after her mom had taken all of hers away and replaced them with pencils. Giving her money for makeup when she was older, and surprising her with tickets to her favourite band one birthday.

The fact he left still stung, as did the way he treated Nate. But those slights had clouded everything else he had done, too, smothering all the good with bitter memories and hurt, so that all she could see was a fat old man, propped up in his chair, a can in his plump hands.

Whatever he had been, he had loved her. And underneath it all, she had loved him. Oh yes, part of her still hated him. She couldn’t deny that. But she loved him too.

Her dad.

_"Who's that trip-trapping on my bridge?" her father growled, peering over an old illustrated book, a mischievous gleam in his eyes._

Quinn exited her armour and walked back across the apartment, halting at the edge of the hole.

“Quinn?” Danse said, sharply.

“There’s something in my father’s room,” she said, her voice somewhat strangled. “I’ll have a better chance of getting across if I’m like this. Can I go, please?”

He paused, and she knew what was going through his mind. She had a habit of doing stupid things and getting herself hurt. But that had always been in the heat of the moment, with no thought involved. Now she was _asking_ for his consent, and if he said no, Quinn knew she’d obey. But she had a feeling he wouldn’t.

Danse nodded.

Taking a deep breath, Quinn edged her way around the gaping wound in the floor, her feet occasionally slipping on broken wooden panelling, making her heart stop in her chest. But eventually, she made it across, and strode into his bedroom.

It looked the same as ever, almost unused. Her dad had fallen asleep in his armchair most nights, even when she wasn’t around. Her eyes fell on his nightstand, and she walked over to it, wrenching open the top drawer.

Quinn rooted through an assortment of screws, old house keys, broken plugs, snapped pencils, and appliance manuals, until she found what she was looking for. She hadn’t been certain he would even have it, but if there was one place it could be, it would have been his bedroom drawer.

With trembling fingers, Quinn lifted out the old, crumbling copy of her favourite bedtime story: _The Three Billy Goats Gruff._ He had read it to her every night, without fail, until she had decided she was too old for such things. There had been a flicker of disappointment in his face, but she had been too young to recognise it at the time.

He had kept it after all these years.

He had _kept_ it.

Quinn trailed back into the main area, clutching the book tight to her chest. Part of her wanted to take the drawing as well, but that was different. That was her gift to him, and no matter where he had ended up, here is where the picture would stay.

She stashed the book away in her armour, and then clambered back into it with a clunk.

“Soldier?” Danse inquired, frowning.

“I’m good,” Quinn replied, glad she managed to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Come on. We still have work to do.”

* * *

The hospital was chaos, but it was the sort of chaos that Quinn did not have time for. Carson seemed to share her sentiment. Far from letting his separation from Kapraski bring him down, the knight seemed to be filled with fierce determination that blossomed into a cold efficiency that Quinn had never seen in him before. He put down raider after raider, killing them without pause before moving onto the next room, only stopping when Danse gave out his orders.

_“Is everything alright?”_ she’d asked him.

_“I just want to get home to Tom,”_ he’d replied, and then refused to say anything else on the subject.

Finding the magnets had been a different matter.

_“It’s not like Ingram gave me a diagram,”_ Quinn protested when Rachel started complaining at their lack of progress. The search had taken hours, but eventually they’d managed to find one inside a mostly intact piece of hospital equipment after it had interfered with Carson’s visor display, causing it to cut out until he’d moved away from the source of the trouble.

Rachel had been given the honour of transporting them, being the only one who wasn’t wearing power armour. She sat in the corner now, fast asleep, the rucksack containing the magnet held close as she snored softly. Danse was at the opposite end of the room, also asleep, still and small, his chin resting on his chest.

Quinn was surprised that Carson hadn’t argued when Danse had decided that they were bunkering down in the hospital for the night, and even more surprised that Danse would suggest it in the first place. She supposed he didn’t want to lose anyone else through tiredness.

Quinn sighed. She should be sleeping, too, but her mind brimmed with images of Kapraski. Every time she closed her eyes, she only saw blood and bone, his strangled screams filling her ears as she began to doze off. Was this what Danse saw in his nightmares?

She shifted on the spot, unable to get comfortable, and played with the bottle of purified water that she had taken earlier from her armour. Perhaps she should check on Carson. He had volunteered for first watch, scowling when Quinn had tried to convince him otherwise. Danse had looked worried too, but in the end allowed it. Rachel, meanwhile, had said nothing, lighting up a smoke and shrugging when Quinn had asked why she wasn’t concerned.

_“Everyone has their shit to deal with,”_ Rachel had replied. _“But he’s not gonna get himself killed. Not while Kapraski is still possibly alive. He still has someone to fight for. If Kapraski dies, though...that’s when you should be worried. Because then he’ll be in the same place you were. The same place a lot of us have been.”_

True words, Quinn supposed, but still cold. Once again, she wondered how much she actually liked Rachel. The knight-sergeant had been quick to declare Casey and Kapraski lost causes, and even quicker to suggest she would kill them if they had been turned, without so much of a hint of grief. They were supposed to be her friends. Even Danse, whose issues with mutants and ghouls were strong, showed distress at the fact he had killed a mutant Cutler.

Once she had thought Rachel’s beliefs were on par with Danse’s. Now she suspected they surpassed them. Had her daughter’s fate caused a disconnect with her sense of empathy and compassion?  By letting her family escape her own beliefs, was Rachel trying to make up for it by showing no mercy to anyone else? Maybe her disdain towards non-humans had been amplified instead of dampened.

_I should talk with her about it,_ thought Quinn, taking a sip from her bottle of water. _Maybe she doesn’t realise she’s doing it._

A slight scuffling noise in the corner dragged her from her musing, and she looked to see Danse twitching as if pushing away an invisible enemy, a slight frown on his face.

Glancing first at Rachel, and then the doorway which led to the room Carson lurked in, Quinn made up her mind. Still holding her bottle of water, she made her way to the paladin, crouching down in front of him. More than likely she would receive a crack across the jaw, but Quinn didn’t mind. It would hurt, and yet it would fade, unlike the shame Danse would feel if the others knew of his nightmares. Better to stop his dream now before it became a full blown episode.

Steeling herself for the pain, Quinn set down her bottle and clamped her hands down on his shoulders, giving him a little shake.

At once, Danse’s hand shot out, grabbing the front of her uniform and yanking her forward as he raised his other hand in a fist. Then he blinked, and lowered his arm, letting go of her and looking horrified.

“Quinn,” he whispered. “I’m...you shouldn’t have...I could have _hit_ you.”

Quinn smiled and picked up the bottle she had brought with her, holding it out to him. “Here.”

“But I almost—”

She shook the bottle in her hand so that the contents sloshed noisily, and Danse sighed before taking it. He drank almost half of it in two gulps, and then handed it back as he laid his head against the wall, his eyes closed.

Quinn screwed the cap back on and then sat down in front of him, waiting. When he didn’t speak, she said, “Do you think Kapraski will survive?”

“I don’t know.”

Quinn paused, watching him carefully.

“If you have something to say—” Danse began, his eyes still shut.

“What happened to Kapraski wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it’s my fault,” Danse shot back, opening his eyes and looking at her, glaring. “He was my responsibility, and once again I’ve been unable to keep my own team safe.”

“With all due respect, sir,” came a voice from the other side of the room, making them both jump, “you were just a passenger on an aircraft. You had very little to do with it.”

Quinn shuffled around to see Carson stood in the doorway, looking ashen-faced but determined.

“Knight Carson—” Danse began as he rose to his feet, but Carson cut across him.

“The only person who influenced the outcome was Tom, and that’s because he’s a damn good pilot. He saved his own life. But whatever happens now, it’s not your fault for leading the mission. It’s not Tom’s fault for not landing better. It’s not my fault for…”

His voice cracked, but he frowned and forced himself to continue. “It’s not my fault for not getting there sooner. Sometimes, it’s not anyone’s fault. The sooner you learn that, sir, the better.”

If Carson’s tone bothered Danse, he didn’t show it. If anything, he looked confused, as if unsure why he was being offered such kindness.

“It was my decision to…” he tried again, but Carson shook his head.

“I don’t blame you, sir. And when we go back, and...and when…” Carson’s face crinkled with despair, before hardening. “And when Tom is better, he’ll tell you the same. As would any of the men and women who served with you, alive or dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Carson folded his arms and stared at Danse, a fierce look on his face. “I’ve heard the stories, sir. People talk. Maybe you don’t know what others think of you, because you’re an officer and because you’re too focused on your work to seek out your own gossip. But people look up to you, myself included. The squires idolise you. The grunts know that if they’re working with you, shit gets done. And _everyone_ knows that you care for your team and that you’re honest, and that…” Carson paused, his voice choking up. “...that if something goes horribly wrong, you won’t just leave people behind. You’ll own up to your mistakes and you’ll go out of your way to fix them.”

“Hear hear,” mumbled Rachel Marguerie from across the room. Everyone turned to look at her, and she opened a bleary eye and shrugged. “Danse, if you’re ever worried at what kind of person you are, compare yourself to me. That should show you your worth.”

She yawned and shut her eyes, pulling the rucksack closer to her chest. Within seconds, she was snoring again.

Carson stared at her for a moment, and then turned back to Danse.  “I’m sure you’ve had your share of fuck ups, but this one isn’t one of them. Shit happens, sir.”

Danse said nothing, but straightened up, looking like a soldier again, and nodded.

Apparently feeling he had done his part, Carson nodded back, and then left.

The second the knight had departed from the room, Danse seemed to deflate, leaning back against the wall and sliding down to the floor, his hand pressed to his forehead.

“He has a point,” Quinn said in a low voice, in case Rachel was still listening.

“No, he doesn't,” Danse snapped back quietly, though he looked uncertain.

Sighing, Quinn sat down next to him, thoughts whirling through her head. There was an urge coursing within her, one that she had been forcefully ignoring for months, but now...

The guilt was still there of course, but it was softer, smothered by the events of the day. If anything, Quinn had learned that her life in the wasteland existed entirely on borrowed time. Tomorrow she could be dead. _In minutes,_ she could be dead. Kapraski had shown her that. But if things could be pushed in the right direction, even with just the smallest of steps...maybe it was time to stop skirting around the inevitable.

Quinn took hold of his hand.

Danse’s head turned sharply to look at her, eyes wide with shock. He glanced down at their entwined fingers, and then back to her face, lost for words.

Maybe she’d gone too far. Presumed too much. After the way she’d treated him...no, this was a stupid idea. A _terrible_ idea. What did the military call it? Fraternisation? And he was still staring at her. God fucking _damn it._

Feeling mortified, Quinn tried to pull away, getting to her feet, but to her greatest surprise, Danse held on, looking up at her. He was bright red and clearly nervous, but his grip was firm.

Hesitating for a moment, Quinn slowly sat back down again, her cheeks now burning as her heart hammered in her chest. Danse looked unsure of himself, as if he didn’t know what to do now she was here.

In all honesty, neither did Quinn.

Still, she could try.

“Does...does this bother you?” she asked quietly, praying Rachel was definitely asleep again.

Danse frowned. “I don’t know.” There was a pause, and then he cleared his throat. “Why have you gone from being distant to...to this?”

“I don’t know.”

_“Outstanding,”_ Danse grumbled, rolling his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall again. “Why are you so damn difficult?”

“Difficult?” Quinn hissed quietly, throwing a glance over in Rachel’s direction before glaring back at him. “Don’t even get me started on you, Paladin Petulant!”

He gave her such an offended look that Quinn couldn’t help but giggle, and as his irritation increased with her mirth, she had to smother her laughter into his shoulder. When she looked up again, he was half smiling, half frowning. With the greatest effort, Quinn calmed herself down.

“You mentioned that you don’t know if it bothers you,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Can you tell me what might bother you about it?”

Danse stared down at their hands, and then looked at his feet. “My rank.”

“Go on.”

“I...I don’t want to compromise myself or you.”

They were playing the game of talking about it without directly referring to it, a concept that made her feel comfortable. Fraternisation could mean friendships too. After all, if they didn’t explicitly _discuss_ it, then nothing had really changed, right? From the way Danse kept looking at anything but her, she sensed he was thinking the same thing.

Quinn frowned. “But surely people get close in the Brotherhood all the time?”

“They do. But generally not with the people that sponsor them. If that happens, an official distance is created between the two parties to prevent any interference with work. As it should be.”

“I see.”

Danse hesitated, still averting his eyes from her. “Can you tell me why you’ve been…?”

“Changing how I act around you like the wind changes direction?”

He nodded.

“Today made me realise that I live a very dangerous life,” Quinn said with a shrug. “I’ve had—and still have—a lot of conflict over my past and my husband, but…” She licked her lips and looked at him. “This isn’t the world I knew. I don’t have the luxury of time. I brushed past death twice today, in the ship and in that stairwell, and I—”

At the mention of the stairwell, Danse’s grip tightened considerably, and Quinn winced a little until he relaxed. Then, finally, he looked at her and nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I don’t...I’m just…”

Quinn shot him a smile. “I wouldn’t worry about it, sir. It’s cold tonight.”

“What?” He frowned, looking confused. “No, it’s not.”

“Very cold,” Quinn went on, ignoring him. “Knight-Sergeant Marguerie has her rucksack to keep her warm, and Knight Carson has his power armour, but I suppose we will _have_ to make do with more traditional methods.”

“What are you…?” Danse said, and then blinked as realisation hit him. “I, uh. Yes, you’re right. Freezing cold.”

The grin on Quinn’s face widened, and after a moment, Danse gave her a shy smile back.

“Very considerate of you, sir,” she said, pulling his hand into her lap and holding it with both of her own as she leaned against him. “Very considerate indeed.”

Danse didn’t reply, but after a minute or so, he rested his head against hers, his thumb tracing small circles in Quinn’s palm. They stayed that way for the rest of the night, the two of them slipping in and out of sleep as Rachel continued to snore away on the other side of the room.

* * *

_“Good morning, sir!”_

Quinn awoke with a start, just in time to see Rachel Marguerie give Danse a kick in the boot, grinning down on the two of them like she’d found a large crate of Cuban cigars, her eyes glittering with delight.

Danse struggled to his feet, stammering excuses, but Rachel talked loudly over him.

“Weather’s looking good today, huh, Carson?” she said over her shoulder, the wicked smirk still firm on her face. “No rad storms, at least.”

“I, uh, yeah,” Carson replied. He looked bewildered, but then gave Quinn a small, knowing smile. Sadness lingered in it; Quinn knew his mind was elsewhere, and yet he was happy for her all the same. “Skies looked clear when I checked earlier.”

“Get suited up,” Danse muttered, storming past both of them, his face bright red.

He said little else as they left the hospital, stomping ahead and avoiding looking at any of them. Carson was quiet, too, far from his usual chatty self, but Rachel radiated smugness. She kept grinning at Quinn, before pulling faces at Danse. Quinn didn’t mind.

No, she didn’t mind at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to midnightmooncat, who is ill! Get better soon! <3
> 
> You know what the best thing is about OCs? They're completely at my mercy. :D


	34. The Calm Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to press the post button before I left for work. Oops.

The vertibird had barely landed before Carson had thrown himself out onto the Prydwen’s deck, dashing straight past Lancer-Captain Kells without so much as a backward glance. As Danse, Quinn, and Rachel approached, the officer rounded on Danse, glaring.

“What is the meaning of this, Paladin?” he snapped, pointing after Carson, who had wrenched open the door leading inside and disappeared from sight.

Paladin Danse explained what had happened to their vertibird, and the nature of Carson and Kapraski’s relationship, and all at once, the harsh lines of Kells’ face smoothed out into something close to sympathy.

“I see,” he said after a pause. “I did wonder what had happened to Lancer Kapraski’s crew when they brought him in. Good to see you’re all in one piece.”

“Sir, is he alright?” Quinn asked, her heart jumping into her throat.

“He’s alive,” Kells replied, and when Quinn breathed a sigh of relief, he shook his head. “Go and see him. Dismissed.”

Quinn glanced at the others, and then set off after Carson, not caring that Danse and Rachel had opted for a dignified walk instead. She knew Danse had a certain level of conduct he needed to keep to, and Rachel was...well, Rachel.

Thankfully, Quinn had no such barriers in her way, and she sprinted through the ship, only stopping when she found Carson’s armour left abandoned outside the sickbay.

_They can bitch to me later about blocking up the corridor,_ she thought, leaving her own armour and heading inside Cade’s domain with a feeling of dread.

_“He’s alive.”_

Nothing else. Was he even conscious?

The answer to that question was yes, in a fashion. Kapraski lay in the sickbay gurney mumbling to himself as his blank eyes stared up at the ceiling. Carson knelt next to him, clinging at his free hand.

At first, Quinn didn’t even realise Kapraski’s eyes were open, they were that swollen. Survival had done him no favours. While the blood had been cleaned away and the glass removed from his skin, Kapraski’s face was a heavily bruised and scabbed mess. His arm was bound in a contraption that looked like a cross between a splint and a metal cast, and…

Quinn felt her blood run cold. Her eyes trailed across the shape of Kapraski’s body under the blankets. Where his left leg should have been was flattened bed sheets.

“Oh shit,” Quinn whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

Carson said nothing, bending forward so that his forehead pressed against Kapraski’s hand.

“He’s lucky to be alive.”

Quinn jumped. She hadn’t noticed Knight-Captain Cade stood in the corner of the room. He looked uncharacteristically tired, his eyes puffy and shadowed, his face unshaven. A small smear of dried blood lurked along the length of his jaw line, and Quinn could see more traces of it down his neck.

“He’s…” She licked her lips, fixing her gaze on Cade, not wanting to stare at the lancer. “There was no way...?”

Cade shook his head. “By the time he’d been brought onto the Prydwen, I thought I’d be unable to help him. Thankfully, the tourniquet did the trick, as well as the emergency procedures of the scribes on the flight back. But…” He sighed. “Leg was beyond saving. Too much damage; the wound could have gone septic. So I did what I could, with the help of Scribe Shingler. But he's not out of the water yet. The risk of infection is still there, and given how much blood he's lost…”

Carson’s shoulders began to shake. Cade threw him a concerned look and then gestured with his head to Quinn, while saying out loud, “We’ll just be outside, Liam.”

Carson didn’t respond.

Quinn trailed after Cade as he shuffled through the corridors, his usual energy gone. As they walked, she saw Danse and Rachel approaching, and she shook her head at them, mouthing, _“Later.”_

The two of them glanced at each other and then the sickbay. There was a pause, and then they both nodded and went off in the opposite direction.

“Scribe Shingler helped?” Quinn asked as Cade trailed down towards a door she had never noticed before. He opened it, revealing a small, clean washroom, complete with extra medical supplies. Cade took one look in the mirror, grumbled, and turned the taps on. He picked up a grey cloth and wet it, scrubbing at the patches of blood on his skin. Then he splashed his face and leaned over the sink, letting it drip as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he looked worse for wear.

“Yes, she did,” he replied, drying off with a towel and tossing it back into the sink before opening the mirror and pulling out bottles of antiseptic and several syringes of med-x. “Refused to let me treat her for her broken ribs until we had done everything we could for Kapraski.”

“You didn’t have other people who could have assisted?”

“I did, but…” He frowned, his eyes looking distant for a moment. “There are not many who are willing to saw off a man’s leg, even if they’ve been trained for it. Myself included.”

There was a silence, and then suddenly Cade dropped everything in his arms into the sink with a clunk, leaning over again and breathing deeply through his nose.

Quinn stared at him, unsure what to do, but after a few seconds, he seemed to remember her presence. Cade straightened up with an awkward cough, and then forced a smile as he began picking up the items from the sink again. “Sorry about that.”

“Are you…?” Quinn began.

“Fine,” replied Cade in a manner that suggested the topic was closed. “Come on. It’s best not to leave Knight Carson alone like this.”

As they walked back to the sickbay together, Quinn plucked up the courage to ask _the_ question.

“Knight-Captain Cade,” she said in a low voice. “Will Kapraski live?”

Cade stopped in his tracks, feet from the door. He said nothing for a moment, and then sighed.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

Putting together the electromagnetic actuators was slow work.

Danse fiddled with the wiring in his hands, trying to ignore the muggy air of the small, sweltering workshop, glad there was no one else around. Quinn had left over an hour ago to collect materials from around the airport, and while he missed her presence, it meant he could alter his clothes in peace.

He wasn’t one for wearing his uniform inappropriately, but with the heat so high, he had abandoned his gloves and pulled down his jumpsuit to his hips, revealing the white vest underneath.

As he worked, his thoughts drifted to Kapraski. He had gone to see the lancer once Cade had settled Carson down in the sickbay; the day to day checkups had been moved to Quinlan’s office, to give Kapraski some privacy, much to the Proctor’s grumbling. Cade had quickly put him in his place. Carson himself hadn’t left his partner’s side since they had landed on the Prydwen three days ago.

It was times like this that Danse wondered what would happen if several seriously wounded soldiers ended up under Cade’s care all at once. There wouldn’t be enough space for them.

An oversight in the Prydwen’s design, perhaps? Maybe Elder Maxson would seek to fix this flaw now that it had been brought to attention. Or maybe both the Elder and Lancer-Captain Kells had always been aware of this, and deemed it an acceptable pitfall?

Danse paused and wiped his brow, and then jumped as a hand fell onto his shoulder.

“Sir,” said Knight-Sergeant Marguerie brightly as he dropped the piece of tech in his hands, cursing. She smiled at him. “How are you?”

“What do you want, Marguerie?” Danse grumbled, stooping down to pick up the tech.

“What, I can’t make a social visit to my dear friend and teammate?”

Danse glowered at her, and she grinned.

“Now you mention it, though,” Marguerie said, picking up one of the tools off his workbench and inspecting it, “I did want to ask you about Quinn.”

“What about Quinn?” He thought he knew exactly what. As if on cue, his cheeks started burning.

“Don’t play dumb with me, sir,” Marguerie said, putting the tool back on the bench and perking an eyebrow at him. “Stupidity doesn’t suit you. Even if I don’t take into consideration what happened at the hospital, I’m not blind. When are you going to talk to her about it?”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“I think there’s plenty to talk about. You like her. She likes you. Make a move. Simple.”

“It is _not_ simple.”

“Why not?”

Danse sighed. He was sick of having to explain the obvious. “I have no intention of indulging in fraternisation. I am her sponsor, and I am a paladin. I am in a position of authority above her, and any kind of intimacy could cloud my judgement and cause me to start making decisions based on personal bias alone.”

“Since when has fraternisation been a problem in the Brotherhood?”

“It’s in the codex, page one hundred and seventy four, paragraph three, section c.”

“Sir.” Marguerie massaged her temples. “Not are you the only person to ever read and memorise the goddamn rulebook cover to cover, but you’re also the only one who actually follows that regulation. You _know_ that rule was deemed impractical from almost the beginning.”

“Unofficially.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, unofficially, but so what? No one pays it any attention. Elder Maxson’s parents clearly didn’t. And neither did Elder Lyons when he had Sarah.”

“Unlike the elders,” Danse replied through gritted teeth, “I don’t feel I have the...the restraint not to show favouritism.”

“If we all followed that fraternisation rule, the Brotherhood would have died out years ago. Not just because of relationships, but friendships, too.” She shook her head. “We live together. Fight together. Die together. Fraternisation is going to happen. And I’d rather be side by side with a friend than just a commanding officer, sir.”

But Danse wasn’t listening. He had dropped his bit of circuitry again, a horrible feeling rising in his stomach. His friendship caused a risk of bias, too. He’d never thought of it like that. _Why_ had he never thought of it like that? Panic started to wash over him as he remembered all the times he had acted in Quinn’s favour. Had he betrayed the Brotherhood without meaning to? Had he—?

“Sir,” said Marguerie, her eyes narrowing into slits. “You’re not thinking of cutting her off, are you?”

Danse didn’t reply. He felt sick.

Rubbing her forehead with her knuckle, Marguerie made an irritated noise, and then said, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Finding his voice, Danse replied, “The day I let you speak freely is the day I—”

“You’re being an idiot,” Marguerie interrupted, folding her arms. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “Sir.”

“I don’t like your tone, Knight-Sergeant.”

“Oh for the love of—” She slammed her hand onto the workbench and gave him a scowl worthy of Knight-Captain Cade. “Just forget the fact for a second that we’re soldiers and you’re above me and whatever. _Listen_ to what I’m saying to you.”

Danse listened.

“First of all, who gives a shit whether you have a relationship with Quinn, friendly or otherwise?” Marguerie poked him in the chest. “Everyone who knows you, _including_ Elder Maxson, understands that you’re a man of honesty and integrity with such levels of professionalism that sometimes it’s goddamn frustrating. You wouldn’t _let_ yourself be biased.”

“You dislike me being professional?” Danse asked, frowning.

“No, I dislike it when you refuse to look after yourself for the sake of your work. Personally, I don’t think you’ve looked after yourself since Cutler died.”

Danse flinched. It felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Marguerie nodded, still glaring at him.

“Secondly,” she went on, “people have relationships in the Brotherhood all the time, and not just the elders. Take the Coopers, for example. Or Carson and Kapraski. And I don’t know about you, but since Quinn got her shit together, I’ve seen nothing but dedication on her part. She told me her son works for the Institute— _and I know you fucking know about it because you’re a shit liar, so don’t even act like you weren’t aware._ She has more than enough reason to leave us and never come back, and yet instead she’s helping us take those bastards down. She’s _one of us.”_

Danse was staggered. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that Quinn had told Marguerie the truth, or that Marguerie had kept it quiet. But regardless, she was right. Quinn’s attitude had changed enormously since he had first met her. She was Brotherhood, through and through.

_Just like me._

“And finally,” Marguerie said, fixing him with a fierce stare, “she makes you happy.”

Silence.

“What?” Danse thought there would be more, but Marguerie had seemed satisfied with her final point.

“She makes you happy,” Marguerie repeated. “I can see it in you. Everyone can goddamn see it. The grunts love to gossip. _She makes you happy._ And believe me, that is worth its weight in gold. The time I had with George, and with…”

She swallowed. “It made me happy. And even now, in the aftermath, I don’t regret one moment of it. They made me... _so happy.”_ Marguerie paused and wiped her eyes, looking embarrassed, and then snapped her gaze back to Danse. “Don’t let that pass you by. Don’t be an idiot.”

“Are you alright?” he said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Crying women were more frightening than a rampaging deathclaw.

“Fine.” Her response was sharp, and Danse knew better than to push her. “Just...sort your shit out, sir. Or I’ll carry you over to her myself.”

Danse didn’t doubt it. Rachel Marguerie was a tank with legs. But she just didn’t understand. She had never adhered to the code of the Brotherhood fully. Not that Danse questioned her loyalty; there were few that were more dedicated than Knight-Sergeant Marguerie, despite her dislike of proper conduct between ranks. She had always been that way, right from when he had first met her in training.

But ever since her family had been taken from her, her attitude towards the Brotherhood had intensified, to the point where sometimes Marguerie seemed to be a different person from the one who had left the Citadel behind to raise a child.

_She’s been through a lot_ , Danse thought dully as Marguerie glared at him. _So have I. We all have._

Elder Maxson crossed his mind. The boy. The friend. The man.

His friendship with Maxson had cooled off over the years, ever since he took charge. Neither of them had ever discussed it or even challenged it; it was something they had silently accepted, their familiarity turning into an appropriate distance. But that had not meant the trust or respect had gone, too. Instead, the bond between them had become like stone: cold, but also strong. Enough to weather the challenges the Brotherhood now faced.

Danse trusted Elder Maxson with his life, and he knew Elder Maxson trusted him with his.

But this professional aloofness that came so readily to him with others...he wasn’t sure if he could bear the idea of doing it to Quinn. But what choice did he have?

“Danse.”

Danse blinked. Marguerie rarely addressed him as anything other than _‘sir.’_

She gave him a motherly smile. Oddly enough, it suited her battle-worn face. “I still don’t think anyone will have a problem with you and Quinn, but if it bothers you that much, request Quinn be moved from your team. That way, you don’t have to work with her. Then you’ll be safe to act how you see fit.”

The thought had crossed his mind before, several months ago, but Danse had disregarded it, deciding not to entertain wishful thinking. No point in forcing an unwanted separation for such an unlikely prospect.

Now it seemed to make perfect sense, but Danse was surprised to find himself not overjoyed with the suggestion. Instead, it filled him with dread. He didn’t _want_ to stop working with Quinn. Who would she be put with instead? Some Knight-Sergeant who wouldn’t keep an eye on her? And then...

Danse shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

And then of course, taking such an action would open up the next steps. He would have to talk to Quinn about it. Not in vague terms, both of them staying firmly in their comfort zones. No, they would have to _talk_ about it.

The idea terrified Danse.

What if it went wrong? What if he’d been misreading Quinn all this time?

_What if I lose her?_

His mind had no answers. He knew that there was always the chance, always the _risk_ of her being the next Cutler. What had happened in the stairwell in the ruins had shown that perfectly. If he kept his distance, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. Or maybe if he kept his distance, she wouldn’t be harmed at all.

_It’s too late for that._

With a groan, Danse rubbed his at his face, avoiding the Knight-Sergeant’s eyes. In typical Marguerie fashion, though, she guessed his gripe right away.

“No one ever said this shit was easy, sir.” She lit up a cigar and offered him one.

Danse took it.

They stood in silence together, puffing away as Danse mulled over the chaotic thoughts in his head. Marguerie must have sensed his mood, because she didn’t laugh at his coughing this time.

Only when Quinn returned, clattering and cursing as she dropped a piece of scrap metal on her foot, did Marguerie take her leave.

“Have fun, kids,” she said, staring at Danse as she said it. “Remember my advice, sir. Work isn’t everything.”

“Dismissed, Knight-Sergeant,” Danse replied, glaring at her. She smirked and left.

“Rachel’s giving you advice now?” Quinn asked, dumping the materials on a nearby cabinet with a loud bang. “On what? How to be obnoxious and terrifying?”

“No, I’ve been told I have an acceptable level of competency in both of those areas.”

Quinn laughed and then picked up an old toaster, frowning at it. “How the hell is _this_ supposed to help make a goddamn super magnet?”

“Mm,” Danse replied, not listening as he started fiddling with the piece of tech on his workbench again, while she continued to rant about toasters and desk fans.

_I could ask Elder Maxson to separate us. I could...I could…_

“Are you even—?” Quinn began, but Danse cut across her.

“Quinn.” He turned to face her, his tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth, sludging his words. Everything felt...unreal. His stomach churned so violently, he thought he was going to be sick, and his _damn chest._ If she couldn’t hear his heart from over there, then he would be surprised. Swaying a little on the spot, Danse tried to force the words out, but his throat tightened so that all that came out was an odd choking noise.

“You okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she put the toaster down.

Danse made another attempt to speak.

Nothing.

_God damn it, just tell her. Just tell her. Just—_

A loud snapping noise cut through the lull of croaking from his throat, and both of them looked down to see the complicated piece of circuitry had broken in his clenched fist. With a wordless snarl, Danse turned and flung the tech onto the workbench, annoyance flooding through him. He had spent all morning on that. And for what?

_A reason to escape that conversation._

The thought made him even angrier, a rage aggravated by the relief he felt towards this fact. He was so _weak._

“Danse?”

Quinn approached him, looking worried, and put a hand on his shoulder; Danse fought the urge to shake her off, resenting her touch and craving it all the same. He hated that she could do this to him: make him doubt himself so much, but make him want it all anyway.

Concern etched into her face, Quinn stared at him. After a long, tense quiet, she said, “Did I go too far in the hospital?”

Danse leaned forward onto his workbench, closing his eyes. It would be so easy to lie and stop it now before it went any further. It would be _so easy._ She would respect his boundaries if he established them now, even if they were false. All he had to do was say yes.

“No,” he answered, still keeping his eyes shut. It was easier to speak when he could pretend she was someone else.

“Then talk to me about it.”

“I...I’m…” He could feel his face burning, but his words failed him again. In an instant, her hand drew away from him, and he heard footsteps. Danse opened his eyes and saw Quinn had moved back to her own workbench.

“There’s no rush,” she said, shooting him a smile as she tinkered with something small in her hands. “I’ll be here if you ever want tell me what’s troubling you. But in the meantime, I think the best thing to take your mind off it is to complete this project. Agreed?”

Despite the mayhem of conflicting thoughts now racing around his head, he found himself smiling. Professional. Clean. _Safe._ “Agreed, soldier.”

A strange, comfortable warmth flooded through him. Yes, he had ignored everything Marguerie had just told him, delaying the inevitable decision he would have to make, but Quinn understood. She _understood._ She wouldn’t push him. Not until she thought he was ready. His face softened as they stared at each other for a few seconds, before Danse remembered himself and returned to his work.

He glanced at the ruined circuit board and sighed.

_Back to square one._

* * *

** 2283 **

The airship was an absolute marvel to behold. Paladin Danse walked through its gleaming new halls, running his fingers along the smooth, cool metal, a shiver racing up his spine. Brothers and sisters bustled up and down the corridors, bringing equipment onto the ship and carrying in supplies.

This was where he was going to be posted. _This_ was where his new home would be.

Cutler nodded to Danse as he made his way down towards the mess hall, a large crate in his arms. Marguerie jabbed him in the ribs so hard he nearly dropped it, and they shuffled away. Danse thought Marguerie looked sad a lot these days, but he supposed she missed her child. How old would the girl be now? Four? Five?

Shrugging to himself, Danse strolled down the walkways, taking in every detail as he headed towards the front of the airship. The elder had requested his presence.

_Elder…_

Danse had to admit, he never thought Arthur Maxson would reach the rank of Elder, or at least not so young. But after his victory against Shephard the super mutant, a foul monster hell bent on uniting the filth of the wasteland against humanity, and the success in bringing the Outcasts back into the fold, the West Coast Elders had decided the time was right.

Danse agreed.

As he approached the newly constructed office, Danse sighted his friend—and, more importantly, his leader—stood at the window of the ship, staring down at the air base below. He turned, spotted Danse, and smiled.

“Six years in the making,” Elder Maxson said, returning to gazing out at the horizon. “Six years...if only Elder Lyons had seen the fruits of his labour.”

Danse walked across the room, studying the boy in front of him. He frowned. No, Elder Maxson was no longer a boy, but a _man._ The child who had once stood shy and alone in his dorm all those years ago was long gone. He felt nothing but pride.

“With your leadership, we can only go on from strength to strength, sir,” Danse said, standing next to him. The old, hated address was required of him now, and he wondered how it would be taken.

“Sir?” said Elder Maxson, a bitter smile on his lips. He turned to Danse, looking weary and beyond his years as he sighed. “Yes, I suppose first names would be inappropriate, wouldn’t they?”

“In front of the other soldiers, perhaps,” Danse replied. “I didn’t want to presume, sir. But...if you still wish...”

Elder Maxson nodded, relief flickering over his scarred features. “That would be my preference.”

A short, comfortable silence followed as the two of them looked out to the wasteland below—it was as it had always been: the barrier of rank and blood separating them, the bond of steel and circumstance pulling them back together again. Their friendship was the kind held at a distance, but Danse knew he could trust Elder Maxson to make the right decisions—even the hard ones—for the good of the Brotherhood.

And with the airship completed, they could get back to what mattered most: the collection and preservation of technology. Danse voiced this, expecting an enthusiastic response, but was shocked when Elder Maxson shook his head.

“No. I want more for the Brotherhood than that.” Elder Maxson frowned, his eyes full of fire. “I want us to be _more_ than the scrap collectors of the wasteland.”

“Sir?” said Danse, thoroughly confused. He sounded dismissive of the very foundations of the Brotherhood, a notion that made Danse deeply uncomfortable. He tried his best to broach the topic carefully. “I...I was under the impression that with the return of the Outcasts, we’d be embracing the old ways again.”

“The old ways are important, but if Elder Lyons taught me anything, it is that people are important too.” He looked momentarily uncertain, before his face hardened. “We need to take technology to protect the people from themselves...but that doesn’t mean we can’t help them, too. With our resources at hand, we can do a lot of good for the everyman.”

“I see, sir.” Danse was uncertain. On the one hand, he approved of the idea of helping people. A lack of compassion had been the failings of the string of ineffectual men and women that had tried to hold the mantle of ‘Elder’ between Sarah Lyons and Arthur Maxson. Steel had been their lifeblood, and with that edge, they had cut and hurt all they had touched.

Elder Maxson was different. Although his exterior was somewhat cold, Danse knew him well. He cared. But Danse also thought that the priority of technology should go to the Brotherhood, not the wasteland. Protect their own first, so that they may protect others in turn.

Still, he knew better than to voice his disapproval. The word of the elder was law, and Danse had no intention of undermining the authority of Elder Maxson. He had enough challenges on the subject of his age without one of his officers questioning his orders.

A scribe approached, clipboard in hand, and waited politely for the Elder’s attention. Elder Maxson turned and fell into a deep discussion about supplies, rattling off orders as he paced about the room, his brow furrowed with concentration as the scribe trailed frantically after him.

Danse watched, grinning. He needn’t worry. Despite being so new to the role and so young, Elder Maxson held the charisma and bravery of a seasoned warrior...and Danse supposed he was exactly that.

After ten minutes of conversation, the scribe departed, and Elder Maxson sighed, looking tired again. He turned to Danse and gave him a faint smile, warped by the scar that streaked down his face. “I know how you feel about the matter...thank you for not making an issue of it.”

Danse nodded. “Never.”

Elder Maxson paused, and Danse caught a glimpse of the boy he had once known. His eyes moved around the room before settling back on Danse.

“I’ve been trying to decide what to call the ship, and I think I've settled on a suitable name.”

“Sir?”

Elder Maxson looked uncertain again, almost apprehensive. “I was thinking of calling her the Prydwen.”

Danse blinked. “From _Preiddeu Annwfn?”_

“The very same.”

He considered this for a moment, his mind mulling over the poem. Arthur had always liked Arthurian myth as a boy, and even though their last discussion on the topic had been years ago, it seemed the elder’s passion for it had not dimmed with age.

“A fine name,” Danse replied after some thought.

“I had a feeling you would agree.” Elder Maxson smiled. “It has been some time since we sat and talked about it.”

“Do you still feel the same about Lancelot and Guinevere?”

“Of course.” He looked mischievous now, well aware of Danse’s opinion on the subject.

“I'll convince you some day,” Danse replied. Then he remembered himself and quickly added, “Sir.”

Elder Maxson’s smile faltered, and Danse sensed reality had returned to him with a bump. He coughed and then nodded, his somewhat crestfallen expression being replaced by a mask of duty.

“Thank you for your input, Paladin Danse,” he said, turning to look back out of the window. “Please help oversee with the stocking of the Prydwen’s stores.”

Danse saluted. “Sir.”

* * *

Danse awoke, blinking into the darkness, his mind fumbling with the dream as it slipped away from him. Normally he would be rising from a nightmare, but this time he lacked the shakes and cold sweat that went hand in hand with usual evening routine.

It was surprising, really. Danse had expected to see a new face in his sleep, the lancer with the butchered limb, but Kapraski had yet to make an appearance. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or apprehensive. It was only a matter of time, after all.

Grumbling, he turned over, staring at the wall as his eyes adjusted to the black.

He hoped Quinn was getting a better night’s sleep than he was.

* * *

Something soft and scratchy hit her in the face.

“Wake up,” hissed Casey Shingler, dropping the pillow and shaking Quinn as she blinked groggily. “Get up, now!”

“Wha’?” Quinn mumbled, pushing Casey’s hands away as she propped herself up on her bed. “Wha’ the fuck you…?”

“Tom’s awake.”

Quinn sat up so sharply she almost butted heads with the scribe. “He’s awake? He’s gonna be alright?”

Casey gave a small nod. “Well, physically alright. I don’t know about...”

Not listening to another word Casey said, Quinn launched herself from the bunk and sprinted off towards the sickbay, not stopping until she reached the door, panting and squinting in the bright fluorescent lighting.

Kapraski looked almost as bad as the last time she had seen him; the only difference was the swelling had gone down enough that he could open his eyes fully. He was sitting up now, not paying the slightest bit of attention to Carson, who was trying to comfort him. The lancer seemed in a world of his own, staring down at his missing limb.

Carson glanced up at Quinn as she hovered by the door, and gave her a grateful, if somewhat strained, smile. He turned back to Kapraski and gave his shoulder a slight shake.

“Quinn’s here,” he said. “And I imagine Paladin Danse and Knight-Sergeant Marguerie will want to visit at some point, when Casey tells them.”

“I…no,” Kapraski said, making Cade and Carson start. He paused, his voice thick, and then wrenched his hand away from Carson, wiping at his eyes, “Not like this. I just need…”

Quinn glanced from Kapraski, to his stump, and then to the empty syringes of med-x on Cade’s desk. Normally the haze of med-x cleared quickly, while the pain-numbing qualities clung on in the aftermath, but it seemed that the lancer had had a higher dose than normal. Wherever Kapraski was right now, it wasn’t on Earth. He was as high as the stars.

“I’ll go,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have intruded, I’m sorry.”

“No.” Kapraski looked at her, his eyes red and watery as he slurred through his words. “Don’t be sorry. You saved my life.” He glanced at Carson, who had leaned back in his chair, looking dejected, and took hold of his hand again, kissing the back of it. “All of you. I’m just...I don’t know what to do. Look at me. _Look at me._ I’m fucking _useless.”_

He started to sniffle, staring off into the distance, tears dripping down his cheeks, and Carson carefully held Kapraski to his chest; the lancer clung to him with his free hand, crying into Carson’s shoulder.

Quinn looked away until Kapraski quieted. Cade, meanwhile, continued rattling amongst his equipment, obviously ignoring the lancer’s distress for the sake of privacy. But when he turned to face his patient again, he smiled.

“Lancer Kapraski,” he said kindly, a med-x syringe in his hand. “You are _not_ useless. From what Lancer-Captain Kells tells me, the fact you survived at all means you must be one hell of a pilot. And judging from the fact your crew are still here to tell the tale…”

_“Was,”_ said Kapraski, leaning into Carson’s arms, hiccupping, though he seemed to be sobering up. _“Was_ a hell of a pilot. There’s no way I’m going to be able to fly again. Not like this.”

“Don’t be so quick to assume,” Cade replied, shaking his head. “You know full well that Proctor Ingram lost both her legs, and she has been able to walk again thanks to the technology we have.”

“She can walk, but she can’t work on the field. Elder Maxson won’t let her.”

“True,” said Cade. “But that’s because as a soldier, she needs to be mobile at all times, and...well, Elder Maxson is concerned that if her new legs were to malfunction, she would endanger herself and her team. You, however, do not need to be mobile at all times. If anything, sitting down is what you do best.”

Kapraski sat up sharply and yelped in pain as he jolted his broken arm. Cade descended upon him in an instant, injecting the med-x and then helping him lie back onto his pillows.

“I’ll be able to fly?” Kapraski slurred as the chem took hold of him again.

Cade waited for the effects to pass, and when the lancer’s eyes showed signs of alertness, he answered. “Yes, I think you’ll be able to fly. I have already spoken with Lancer-Captain Kells and Elder Maxson, and over the last few days we reached an agreement that your situation is different to that of Proctor Ingram’s. Not only that, but Proctor Ingram has decided to test a prototype that she’s been working on, if you’re willing.”

Kapraski frowned. “What do you mean, prototype?”

“Well, you’ve seen the power armour she walks around in. Good for battle, but not so much for everyday living. Up until Elder Maxson requested she work on a particular project, she had been developing a specially modified set of legs that don’t require power armour, for her own personal use.”

Silence fell, and Cade grinned at the stunned expression on Kapraski’s face. He continued. “However, she found piecing it together a little difficult. I may have mentioned your situation to her at breakfast this morning, and she thinks that working on a single leg model first would help greatly with the logistics of the double model later down the line. Would you be interested in—?”

“Yes,” Kapraski said at once, gripping at Carson’s hand. “Yes, oh my God, _yes.”_

“I thought as much,” Cade replied, his smile widening. “But we can’t start now. We need to wait for your leg to heal, and for Proctor Ingram to finish with the projects Elder Maxson has for her. After that, though…”

Kapraski looked lost for words, while Carson beamed at Cade.

“Uh, excuse me,” came a voice from behind Quinn, a finger tapping on her shoulder.

Quinn turned around to see a very young, very nervous man stood in front of her, not quite meeting her eye. She recognised him as David Bantios, a scribe who she had helped treat for an infected bite when she had been helping Cade run the sickbay. After the lecture Bantios had received from Cade, he had never stuck his hand in Neriah’s molerat cage for a dare again.

The scribe fidgeted a little, and then said, “Proctor Ingram wanted me to tell you that she has tested the actu…actor...actu…”

“Actuators,” Quinn said kindly.

Bantios nodded, flushing. “Actuators. She says they work, and that she has another job for you in the Glowing Sea, and that you should pick a team out, and then go see her.” He paused and then looked at her, alarmed. “B-but go see her alone! The mission is still top secret after all!”

“Noted. Thanks for the message.” She smiled at him.

“Y-you’re welcome,” he stammered, and then hurried away.

Quinn stretched out her arms and sighed, mulling the message over in her head. The Glowing Sea? There must be something big there to risk the trip. Danse was an obvious choice to take with her, but whether he would want to…

“Rachel’s a given,” Quinn said, more to herself than anyone in the room.

“And Paladin Danse,” Carson said, grinning.

Glaring at Carson, Quinn shot a quick look over her shoulder towards Cade, but he was suddenly rattling in his supply cupboard again and humming loudly to himself, and didn’t comment. Pink in the cheeks, she turned back to her two friends, shaking her head at Carson. He gave an apologetic shrug.

“Yes, most likely Paladin Danse,” Quinn replied. Thankfully, Carson didn’t question why it was only ‘likely.’ She went on. “But not sure who will take your place. I mean, you’re obviously gonna be here, so…”

“Liam, go with her,” Kapraski said.

Both Quinn and Carson glanced at him, and he flushed.

“Not that I’m telling you how to build your team,” he said quickly, his face bright red, “but if you _want_ to take Liam with you, don’t stop on my account.”

“But,” Quinn replied, blinking with surprise, looking from one man to the other. “Yeah, of course I’d want you along, Carson, but given everything that’s happened, I would have thought…”

“Tom,” Carson said, shooting Quinn an appreciative look before turning his attention back to Kapraski. “Why the hell would I go anywhere right now? You’ve just…”

_“I know,”_ Kapraski said, so forcefully Carson flinched. His eyes were sharp now, all traces of the med-x gone. He sighed and gave the knight’s hand a little squeeze. “I know. And I know why you want to stay. But whatever is going on is...it’s big. And I don’t want you stuck here with me because I couldn’t land a damn vertibird properly. You like working on the field and you like working with Quinn.”

“But—”

“Please.” Kapraski stared at him. “For me. I’ve already made a mess of myself. Don’t make me feel like a burden too by keeping you here.”

“I... _God damn it.”_ Carson placed a hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “You are so… _difficult.”_

“I know,” Kapraski replied, grinning. “That’s why you love me.”

“Yeah yeah,” Carson muttered, placing a gentle kiss on the top of Kapraski’s head. Then he turned to Quinn. “I’m gonna stay here until you’re ready to go, okay?”

Quinn nodded. “See you soon, Kapraski.”

“Look after him for me, alright?” Kapraski said, leaning against Carson.

She gazed at them both, smiling. Despite it all, they looked so damn _happy_ together.

“I’ll keep him safe, I promise.”

“I am _here,_ y’know,” Carson grumbled.

“Oh, shut up, Liam,” Quinn heard Kapraski murmur as she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a reference to The Walking Dead. Usual thanks to my beta, waiting4morning.
> 
> Normally I have more to say here, but in the wake of the shooting in Florida, I just want to give my condolences. I hope all my American followers are safe and well right now.


	35. Through the Looking-Glass

“Is everything okay?” Carson whispered to Quinn as they walked across the empty plains, the dead grass swaying with the faint breeze.

Quinn shrugged, watching as Danse stomped ahead, followed closely by Rachel, who had done nothing but glare at him since they had left the Prydwen. Proctor Ingram had asked her to fetch nukes for Liberty Prime, which lay somewhere in the Glowing Sea. Now they were heading to Waypoint Echo, to meet up with Scribe Haylen, the presence of Rachel and Carson only adding to the awkward atmosphere between herself and Danse.

Both of them had noticed the tension immediately, of course, and reacted accordingly. Quinn wasn’t sure how Danse could be so calm. She’d be quaking if Rachel looked at _her_ like that.

“I don’t know,” Quinn said after a pause. “But it’s fine. He’ll speak when he’s ready.”

“I don’t get it,” Carson murmured, watching Rachel scowl at Danse as the paladin asked her a question. “When I saw you two asleep in the hospital, I thought that was it. Rachel said she had spoken to Danse, and that it was looking good for both of you.”

_I knew it,_ Quinn thought, remembering Rachel’s hasty retreat when she had returned to the workshop with the scrap for the actuators. _No wonder she looks like she wants to kill him._

“Given the amount of issues I’ve had to work through to get to this point,” Quinn replied, checking over her rifle as Danse and Rachel began to bicker in low voices, “I can’t begrudge him for wanting to work through his. If he comes to the conclusion that he’d rather keep his distance, well…”

Carson grinned at her. “You won’t lie down and take that. Not without challenging him first.”

She gave another shrug. Danse had never forced her to change her mind. It would be wrong of her to do it to him. She voiced this to Carson, and he gave a small gesture towards the arguing officers in front.

“In all honesty,” he whispered, “I reckon Rachel would do it for you.”

The two of them giggled to themselves, just as Danse reached the end of his tether.

“Knight-Sergeant,” he snapped. “I have told you I don’t wish to discuss this any further. Mention it again and you can _walk_ back to the Prydwen.”

Rachel looked livid, but she replied with a cold, _“Sir,”_ and then turned on her heel and stomped towards Quinn and Carson, a thousand silent curses dancing behind her blazing eyes.

Keeping quiet was the best tactic, Quinn decided, and she held her tongue as they walked, Danse leading the way, his agitation clear in his every move. Rachel scowled at him, shaking her head every so often and occasionally turning her angry gaze to Quinn, as if trying to decide whether she was at fault as well.

_“Please! Please help! I don’t want to die!”_

The frantic yell cut through the tension in the air, and they all froze, Danse turning back to look at Quinn, before his head jerked in the direction of the same voice.

_“Shut your mouth or I swear I’ll shut it for you!”_

“What the hell…?” he murmured, and then set off in a fast paced jog, his boots thumping into the ground as Quinn and the others followed. As they approached, Quinn was greeted with one of the strangest sights she had ever seen.

A man stood in front of them, armed with a double barrelled shotgun, which was pointed directly at…his twin?

Both hostage and hostage taker were the absolute image of each other. Squinting at the man kneeling on the ground, Quinn tried to work through her muddled thoughts. Didn’t twins usually grow out of matching clothes and hair when they stopped being children?

“Please!” gasped the kneeling man. “You’ve got to help me! This guy’s a synth and he’s going to kill me and replace me and my family...oh god, my kids…”

Quinn felt a chill sweep through her, but before she could question him, the man with the gun snarled.

“Don’t you _dare_ bring them up!” He glanced at Quinn, the gun trembling in his scarred hands. _“He’s_ the synth and he wants to replace _me!”_

“Please, please!” begged the other man, his voice quaking with terror as his eyes flicked from Quinn and back to the barrel pointed in his face. “You’ve got to believe me! You can’t let that _thing_ do this!”

Quinn turned to the three soldiers at her side, but they all seemed lost for words. She rolled her eyes, glad her helmet concealed her annoyance at them. For all the Brotherhood’s talk of the synth enemy, apparently none of them knew what to do when faced with the real thing. Steeling herself for the talk that was about to come, Quinn removed her helmet, glancing from one man to the other, and then spoke with a soft, soothing voice to the gunman.

“I’m here to help, but I need to know what happened.” She thrust her helmet into Carson’s arms and smiled. “What’s your name?”

The man blinked at her like she’d grown an extra limb, and then shook his head. “Art. My name’s Art. But what does that matter?”

“How did you end up like this, Art?”

“How did I…? Fine, whatever. I was on my way to Bunker Hill. I round a bend and I see this guy. Me. Gun drawn. Ready to fire. After that, it’s...it’s a blur.” Art gestured with the gun, scowling. “We scuffled for a while, but _I_ won. And I’m not going to let this _thing_ hurt my family.”

Quinn nodded. “I know you won’t. Just step back a lil’ bit for me so I can talk with him, okay?”

“Step _back?”_

“I’m going to talk with him, and I don’t want you too close to me with a damn gun pointed my way,” Quinn said, her eyes narrowing. “Just in case _you_ are the synth.”

“Me?” Art’s mouth fell open in shock, but he paled as Rachel Marguerie drew her pistol and aimed it at his head.

“You heard her,” she said. _“Move.”_

Art’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, stepping back a little, his gun still directed firmly at the man on the ground, while Rachel kept him in her sights.

Quinn turned back to the other man. Deciding the armour was too much, she clambered out of it, ignoring Danse’s scowl, and knelt down next to him, smiling.

“Hey,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm though her heart hammered in her chest. “I just need you to tell me the truth. Then maybe I can help.”

The man licked his lips, his eyes darting from Art and back again, his pasty face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Then he bent forward and said in a low voice, “I saw you at the Institute. You need to help me. This guy knows I’m a synth, so just help me take care of—”

A deafening crack filled the air, and Quinn yelled as the synth’s head snapped backwards, his blood spraying all over her face. She turned to see Rachel’s pistol pointed directly at the synth. Smoke drifted out of the barrel.

Quinn glanced down at the man, watching the blood run from his head before being devoured by the dirt. She felt numb. He was dead. Rachel had just killed him.

_Murdered him?_

“Get out of here,” Rachel said to Art, reloading her gun and slipping it back into its holster. _“Now._ Go on.”

“I...yeah,” Art mumbled, staring at his double lying crumpled on the ground. Quinn looked up at him, her mind blank as he spoke again. “God...that thing was wearing my face. It…”

“It’s dead now,” Rachel replied. “Your family is safe.”

“Thank you,” Art said, lowering his shotgun and taking a step away. “Thank you. _Thank you.”_

“Don’t mention it. I’ll be damned if I let some machine kill anyone’s kids. Now get your ass home.”

“I will. I…” Art swallowed. “My face. It had my _face._ The Institute are...they’re monsters. Thank you.”

He kept mumbling his thanks as he walked away, leaving Quinn to gaze down at the dead man next to her, his blood drying on her skin. Slowly, she got to her feet, swaying a little on the spot.

“Good work, Knight-Sergeant,” she heard Danse say.

The blood was drying on her skin.

_Good work._

“What the _fuck, Rachel?”_

Had she just said that?

_Oh yes._

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Her anger crashed down so suddenly that Rachel— _Knight-Sergeant goddamn fucking Rachel Marguerie_ —took a step back.

“What the fuck did you just do?” Quinn yelled, not caring that she sounded near hysterical, not knowing when she had jumped to her feet. “You shot him based on _what?”_ She rounded on Danse. “And you think that’s a good job? That’s what we do now? Just shoot people dead, no questions asked, no prisoners, no mercy?”

_“It_ said it was from the Institute!” Rachel bellowed back, apparently deciding she wasn’t going to just let Quinn walk all over her. _“It_ was going to kill that man and infiltrate that family! Maybe even kill and replace the kids, too! I won’t risk that! Those _things_ shouldn’t even exist, but what does it matter, huh? It won’t ever be _your_ child replaced by them!”

Quinn threw her arm out and cracked Rachel straight across the jaw, pain flaring up in her fingers and knuckles. The knight-sergeant staggered, but before the two men could get between them, she lunged forward. White spots exploded across Quinn's vision as Rachel’s fist connected with the force of a sledgehammer, and she fell with a thud.

In the distance she could hear a scuffling noise accompanied by a string of swear words. Quinn raised her head, ignoring the sickening spinning sensation, and blinked blearily ahead. Danse had clamped his hands on Rachel’s arms, wearing a furious expression as Rachel tried fruitlessly to tug herself free.

“I’m done,” she said, glaring down at Quinn. “I ain’t gonna hit her again. One is always enough.”

“Let her go, Danse. I deserved it,” Quinn said loudly, before letting her head thump back onto the ground. A second later Carson’s face appeared over hers, stricken with worry.

“Are you alright?” he whispered.

Quinn ignored the question. The will to move had left her completely, and she felt her eye throbbing. Her skin puckered where the synth’s blood had settled, and Quinn turned to look at his body, lying feet away from her.

She began to cry.

The tears flowed as she sobbed, and she covered her face with the crook of her arm, not wanting to see the people surrounding her. Quinn wasn’t entirely sure where it all came from, but she couldn’t stop. Maybe because she knew Rachel was right.

It was all so goddamn hopeless.

A strong pair of hands took hold of her, sitting her up and pressing her to their chest. For a split second, Quinn thought it was Danse, but then the acrid smell of stale smoke hit her nose.

“Shh,” said Rachel, cradling Quinn and stroking her hair as she wept. “I got you. Let it all out.” There was a pause, and then, “You two, go scout ahead or something. Give her some space.”

If Danse was annoyed at being ordered around by Rachel, he didn’t say it. Instead, Quinn heard him stomp away without question, followed almost immediately by Carson.

Eventually, Quinn quieted down, but she didn’t move. In her own strange way, the knight-sergeant reminded Quinn of her mother. Sometimes inexcusably harsh, but also gentle when she needed to be.

Sniffing, Quinn finally sat up properly, and stared at Rachel through her good eye. The other felt sore and swollen, and stung when she tried to touch it.

“Now,” said Rachel, smiling despite her bust lip, “tell me what’s caused all this.”

“My child _was_ replaced by them, Rachel. Maybe not by a synth, but…”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” the knight-sergeant replied, and to Quinn’s greatest surprise, she looked ashamed. “I know Carson wouldn’t have guessed what I was referring to, but I shouldn’t have said it all the same. Still, that doesn’t answer my question. There was something wrong before that. So tell me what the problem is.”

“You killed him,” Quinn said, staring down at her hands. “You killed the synth.”

“Yeah, I did,” replied Rachel. “And I’d do it again.”

“But…” Quinn shook her head. “It’s not _fair._ They’re raising these synths, giving them human thoughts, and then sending them out to kill or be killed. They can’t help what they are, and we...we can’t help but kill them. We don’t have any choice but to kill them.”

“Quinn,” Rachel said softly, rubbing her back, “they look human, but they’re _not human._ You have to remember that. They’re just imitations of life. They don’t think or feel like we do, however much they act like it. You saw that synth just now. It had no qualms about killing Art and endangering his family. A real human wouldn’t do that.”

“Some humans do. Some raiders would.”

“I don’t consider raiders to be human either,” Rachel said darkly. “And I’d put them down just as quick.”

Quinn didn’t reply, Nick springing into her mind. What would Rachel think of him?

“The only good synth is a dead synth, as far as I’m concerned,” Rachel went on. “They kill people and take over their lives, and for what? Spying?” She shook her head in disgust. “And I swear to God, if they ever replace me, I expect you to show the same lack of mercy to my doppelganger, because I wouldn’t show any to yours.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Quinn muttered.

“No.” Rachel got to her feet and then offered Quinn a hand. “It’s supposed to tell you that if those bastards kill me, then you better avenge me with a gun. Because you can be damn sure I’ll do the same.”

Rachel Marguerie. Cold. Calculating. Fierce.

_Loyal._

Quinn took her hand.

* * *

“So when were you gonna tell me about all of this?” Carson said, folding his arms as he glared at Quinn.

The story of Shaun—or at least the version she had given Rachel—had been hard to recount, but bringing Carson into the loop was long overdue. She had never wanted to lie to him. Not giving him the full truth hurt her now, and yet Quinn knew she couldn’t risk it. She trusted him with her life, but she wasn’t ready to share it all. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Quinn hung her head. “I’m sorry. I just…”

With a sigh, Carson shuffled across the floor and pulled her into a tight hug.

“I know,” he said. “I get it. Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“I said don’t worry about it.” He gave her a slight shake. “You got enough on your plate without me getting all high and mighty about not knowing every little thing about your personal life.”

“It’s not a little thing,” Quinn huffed, laying her head against his shoulder.

“Still none of my damn business. But thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.” Her racing heart began to subside with his acceptance, and she turned and glanced over towards Danse, deep in conversation with Scribe Haylen.

They’d been at Waypoint Echo for just over half an hour, learning what they needed to about the mission, and then collecting supplies while Danse and Haylen caught up. When the conversation between them had moved onto the topic of the police station, Quinn had decided it was time to come clean with Carson. She’d left her power armour and asked him to follow her.

Now they sat together by a burnt tree, while Rachel shot them glances every so often as she ran through a checklist with the knights that had accompanied Haylen.

“Rachel knows,” Quinn said, bracing for his indignation. It never came.

“Yeah, I figured that out as soon as you told me,” Carson replied with a shrug. “Makes sense why you punched her now. She shouldn’t have said what she did. Though I swear to god, Quinn, you’re either stupid or have balls of steel. Punching _Rachel Marguerie?_ The grunts will be talking about that for the next year once they catch wind of it.”

Quinn laughed. “Judging by the haymaker I got in return, I think I’m just stupid.”

“Only the best for my friends,” Rachel said, dropping down next to them and lighting up a cigar. She took a deep drag of it and blew a thick cloud of smoke up into the air before saying, “But in all seriousness, we good?”

“We’re good.” Quinn meant it. “A ladylike punch-up was just what we needed to clear the air, I think.”

Both Rachel and Carson snorted loudly, drawing the attention of Paladin Danse.

“Soldiers,” he snapped. “What are you doing out of your power armour? We’re right on the edge of the most lethal area in the Commonwealth, and you’ve decided to stop and gossip?”

“Sorry, sir!” Rachel called out as they all jumped to their feet, but when he turned back to Haylen, she muttered, “Look who’s talking.”

All three of them sniggered amongst themselves, and then set about reequipping their gear. Rachel had opted for a hazmat suit to protect her from the radiation instead of her power armour. She had said that there wasn’t enough time to order a new functioning set; Quinn strongly suspected the knight-sergeant simply didn’t want to bother with it. Danse had argued against her joining them on the mission, but Rachel had pointed out that if there was trouble, her Stealth Boys would serve her just as well as any armour. That, and she was fully prepared to accept the risks of such a dangerous venture.

_“On your own head be it,”_ Danse had said after she had continually argued her case, but he had looked worried all the same. Quinn prayed the trip would be incident-free. She wasn’t sure if he would be able to cope with any more guilt on his shoulders.

* * *

“I swear to God!” bellowed Rachel Marguerie, slamming her foot into the chest of the nearest ghoul and sending it toppling backwards over the railings, as a siren wailed overhead. “If I see one more—”

A crack sounded as the ghoul hit the bottom of the room, followed almost immediately by a loud screeching noise as another dragged itself out from a hole in the wall.

“Fuck!”

“Stop jinxing it!” Carson yelled back, before shooting the ghoul in the head.

As Quinn had hoped, they had managed to make it all the way to Sentinel Site Prescott, a large military missile research facility buried deep in the wastes of the Glowing Sea, without attracting any unwanted attention. That had quickly changed inside, however; the site was crawling with feral ghouls. Maybe Rachel was the easiest target, but they seemed to be focusing on her.

“To the elevator!” Danse ordered, and the group backed along the walkways, forcing Rachel in the centre, despite her protests. They reached the elevator shaft, and Quinn peered inside and then shook her head.

“Too far a drop without armour,” she said. “But we could make a run for the stairs.”

“Oh for the love of— _move!”_ Rachel dodged around Danse before he could stop her, and set off in a sprint, her boots slamming down on the metal grating, attracting the attention of every ghoul in the vicinity. They raced after her, and Quinn looked on helplessly as Rachel made her way towards a dead end.

_Am I going to watch her be torn apart?_

At the last second, Rachel veered right and leaped through a gap in the railings. The knight-sergeant soared across the dizzying drop, and then slammed into the giant support beams that ran down the centre of the room. Within seconds she had scrambled up, and turned just in time to watch the ghouls jump to follow her. What they had in speed, they lacked in precision, and most of them bounced off the metal beams with a series of sickening thuds, before tumbling down into the darkness below.

Two, however, clung on.

“Ah, fuck.” She pulled out her pistol and shot one in the head, but as she aimed for the other, it lunged forward, knocking her off her perch.

“Rachel!”

Danse, Carson, Quinn—all three of them had yelled out at the same time. But Rachel paid them no mind. Her hand shot out, grabbing hold of another beam and jerking her to a halt, but the ghoul held onto her other arm, scrabbling at her as they swayed over the deadly drop. It pulled itself up as Rachel tried to kick it off, and then sunk its teeth into her arm.

_“A little help here?”_ Rachel screamed, just as Danse opened fire. The laser hit the ghoul in the face and it let go, plummeting away with a shriek of pain.

“Marguerie!” Danse shouted as the ghoul hit the floor below with a crunch. “You alright?”

“Fine, sir!” she called back, pulling herself onto the beam and then inspecting her arm. “Thanks for the assist!”

“You goddamn _idiot!”_ he bellowed. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“Give me some credit, sir! Five ghouls in one!”

Danse turned on his heel and stomped back towards the elevator shaft, muttering to himself as he went. He turned to Carson and Quinn, and she suspected that under his helmet he was scowling.

“I’ll drop down first and then give the all clear if it’s safe,” he said. “Try not to follow Marguerie’s example and do something stupid while I’m gone.”

“Yes, sir!”

Danse walked past them, still shaking his head, and dropped out of sight. A bang echoed up the shaft, and then he called up to them. “Clear!”

“Ladies first,” Carson said. She couldn’t see his face, but by his tone she knew he was grinning.

Quinn peered down the shaft and then gulped. Even though she knew dropping from this height was safe, she still felt a spike of fear.

_You fell from an aircraft and lived. Stop being so soft and just go._

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the empty air. Her stomach lurched as she fell, but it was over in seconds, the broken elevator at the bottom shaking beneath her weight. Sighing with relief, Quinn dropped down through the open emergency hatch, and then walked through into the main area, where Danse was waiting for her.

“Clear!”

_Bang._

The siren was louder down here, and Quinn saw a blast door with a terminal next to. Leaving her power armour, she walked over to it and tried to access its functions, but the system blocked her.

“Any luck?” Carson asked as he joined them.

“No,” Quinn replied. “Something about the launch sequence sealing the doors. Only way we’re gonna…” Her voice trailed off as she spotted another terminal on a desk. “Huh. May have just found our way through.”

She strolled over to it and tapped through; aborting the launch sequence was the only option. A few taps of the keyboard later, and the sirens and flashing lights stopped, leaving them in ringing silence. “Well, that was easy enough.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Carson exclaimed.

“Oh shut up.” Quinn clambered back into her armour, but when she turned around, Danse had already rushed back into the main room. He ran over to Rachel, who had just climbed down to the ground floor, removing the globular helmet of her suit with a gasp.

Her arm was a bleeding mess; the ghoul’s teeth had sliced straight through the hazmat suit and the uniform underneath. Quinn watched as she pulled off the ruined suit and rolled up the sleeve of her uniform her, wincing. A chunk of her flesh was almost missing, only half attached to the rest of the limb. Up the rest of her arm were laser burns, courtesy of Danse’s rifle.

“This is why we don’t do such foolish escapades,” Danse snapped, checking over her wound.

“I appreciate the concern, sir, but no need to fuss,” Rachel replied. “It’s just my arm. Would have been more pissed off if it had been my face.”

“Yes, because your looks are the only thing going for you these days.”

The two of them laughed while Carson and Quinn blinked, dumbstruck, and all at once Quinn felt on the outside of an old friendship. Danse and Rachel paid them no mind, and instead began to bicker over Rachel’s injury.

“You’re not doing that yourself, Marguerie.”

“Just watch me, sir.” She paused. “Uh. Can I borrow your first aid kit, please?”

“Carson, Quinn,” Danse said. “Keep an eye out for trouble.” He moved back and stepped out of his power armour, before walking around to the kit on the side.

“Sir, I already said—”

“And I said no,” Danse replied firmly, opening the kit and taking out a needle and thread, some gauze, and a bottle of sterilising fluid. “But if you want to help, you can hold the skin in place while I stitch.”

He approached her, placing what he needed on one of the metal beams that Rachel had just clambering from, and then set about cleaning her wound, ignoring her glares. Only when she had to press the chunk of flesh in while Danse sewed the wound shut did her expression change, her already milky skin paling even further still and taking on a tinge of green.

“She’s not a fan of needles,” Carson whispered to Quinn.

“Shut up, Liam,” Rachel snarled.

“But you’re not!”

“Why did you want to do it yourself if you don’t like needles?” Quinn asked quickly before Rachel could reply.

“She would have tried to patch up the wound with as few stitches as possible,” Danse said, his brow furrowed with concentration. “She knows if _I_ do it, it’ll be done properly.”

“Yeah, you’re my knight in shining armour, sir,” Rachel muttered, looking like she might be sick. Danse smirked, but didn’t reply, finishing off the stitching and checking her arm one last time before standing up.

“Go see Cade when we return to the Prydwen so he can look at the wound himself and give you some antibiotics.”

“All this for one bite?”

“You know it could get infected. Maybe next time you’ll—” He stopped as a low, guttural noise sounded behind them. They all turned around, and Quinn yelled out in surprise as a huge, bloated ghoul staggered into view.

She had never seen anything like it—charred skin flaked away with every move, revealing pink, oozing flesh underneath, and its eyes were milky orbs in its sunken, sagging face.

Without thinking, Quinn raised her gun and fired.

The lumbering quality of its movement disappeared, and it barrelled towards her with a speed that did not match its size, lashing out and almost knocking her off her feet. As it hit out again, Quinn ducked back, dodging behind Danse’s power armour. The ghoul charged straight into it with a clang, and the whole frame toppled over, smashing to the floor.

“The fuck is that?” Rachel yelled, retreating and activating the Stealth Boy on her wrist.

“We’ll find out when it’s dead!” Danse shouted, but another feral ghoul came shrieking from the shadows and jumped on him, sending him sprawling. He held it at arm’s length, dodging its gnashing teeth as more inhuman screams sounded down the corridor.

“Danse!” Quinn threw caution to the wind and fired at the ghoul on top of him. The bullet went straight through its head, and Danse threw it off him and scrambled to his feet.

“You and Carson keep the other ghouls at bay!” she yelled to him. “I’ll deal with the big guy!”

The charred ghoul lurched for her again, and she jumped away, its meaty fist just missing her. Even though it was only flesh and bone, it packed a hell of a punch. If it pinned her down the way Danse had been, it wouldn’t take long for it to slam its way through her helmet.

Rachel Marguerie appeared from nowhere with a grunt, the blade of her combat knife gleaming in the low lighting as it flashed through the air. It sliced straight through the ghoul’s throat, and blood rushed from the gash Rachel had carved in its thick neck. But the ghoul either didn’t notice or didn’t care; it swung around with frightening speed and delivered a blow so hard that Rachel went flying, her knife skidding away into the darkness.

“Shit!” Quinn raised her rifle, aiming for the ghoul’s head, but it tottered on the spot and then fell over backwards with a crash, gurgling for a moment before falling still.

Throwing a quick glance at Rachel to make sure no ghouls were eyeing her up, Quinn sprinted over to Danse and Carson, and helped them make quick work of the few remaining enemies. The paladin panted, glaring down the murky corridor, his eyes scanning the shadows. Finally, he relaxed, but it was short-lived as he spotted Rachel in the corner. She hadn’t moved from where she’d fallen, crumpled on the floor.

“Rachel!” Quinn ran over and crouched down next to the knight-sergeant, before giving a sigh of relief as she groaned.

“Fucking _hell,”_ Rachel mumbled. “Now I know how you felt before.” She sat up, wincing, and rubbed the back of her head. A cut across her left cheek was bruising already where the ghoul’s hand had grazed her. Rachel tried to move her head and hissed. “Fuck, my neck!” With difficulty, she forced herself to look up at them. “You alright, Danse? I mean, sir?”

“Yes.” Danse looked pale. “And you?”

“Yeah, just a bit sore. Glad it only just caught me, otherwise I might have ended up a lot worse.” She patted her pocket and pulled out a slightly bent cigar and a zip lighter, and jammed the smoke into her mouth as she lit it. “Get your power armour sorted, then we can use the light on your helmet to find my damn knife and pistol.”

Both Carson and Quinn took the hint and strode over to the armour, lifting it back up into a standing position. Danse inspect it for a few moments, and then climbed back inside.

There was a long pause.

“Sir?” said Rachel from the floor.

Danse gave a heavy, world-weary sigh, and reached up, pulling off his helmet. He turned it over in his hands for a few moments, and then let it drop to the floor with a defeated _clunk._

“Not a word,” he said to Quinn, glaring, before stomping off down the corridor, kicking away the broken helmet as he went.

Rachel watched him go, puffing away on her cigar, deep in thought. She turned to Quinn.

“Your light still works, right?”

* * *

The fight to the control room was a drawn out affair, made more difficult by Rachel’s lag in movement. While she still killed with deadly accuracy, there was an odd sway to her step, her eyes occasionally moving out of focus if she turned her head too hard when she stepped to take on an enemy. Not that the others couldn’t cover her back, but Quinn began to slowly appreciate how much of a difference Rachel’s talents and sheer ballsiness had made to their fighting capabilities.

Finally, they reached their goal, the doors sealed shut with the only obvious way of opening them residing in the cramped control room.

But there was a slight problem.

“Atom has no need of help from non-believers!”

Quinn loomed over the old man, eyeing his ragged robes and bald head with distaste. She had no patience for the Children of Atom at the best of times, and since her day so far had consisted of being punched by a nameless, charred monstrosity that had been trapped at the bottom of a missile facility for over two-hundred years, _and_ Rachel, Quinn’s tolerance was at an all-time low.

She wrinkled her nose as he folded his arms and glared at her suspiciously. Even for a wastelander, the man stank, and she wondered what he had been rolling in for his Atom worship to create such a powerful aroma that it made its way _through_ her suit’s filtration system.

“This man is obviously delusional,” Danse said as the brother finished his spiel about glory and holy relics. He looked equally disgusted by the zealot, and he didn’t even have a helmet anymore to block out the worst of the stench. “I recommend we switch tactics.”

Quinn glanced at him and between gritted teeth said, “He can _obviously hear you, too.”_

The paladin raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond.

“Brother!” Quinn said cheerfully, taking off her helmet and then immediately wishing she hadn’t.

_Good God, he smells like rotting molerats mixed with mirelurk faeces._

She had experienced that exact unfortunate mix when she had thrown a grenade at a mirelurk the first time she had seen one. The resulting blend of blood, innards, and the half-digested mutant rodent it had apparently eaten for dinner which rained down on Quinn had the same distinct scent as the man before her now.

Trying not to gag, she gave the Child of Atom her best law school smile. He frowned at her. She coughed and went on, “I want to spread his, uhh, glory to, uh…” Shit. She probably should have planned ahead better than this. Casting a wary look at the assaultron with the painted words ‘ATOM’S WRATH’ daubed across its chest, Quinn sighed and dropped the act. “Look, the bombs will get used, okay? Isn’t that what you want?”

_“Smooth,”_ she heard Carson mutter from somewhere behind her, and made a mental note to kick him later.

The brother considered this. After a moment, he gave her a bright smile of his own.

“Perhaps, then, I have misjudged you,” he said, digging a hand into the pocket of his rancid robes. “If you would see these relics used, then Atom’s will is done.” He pulled out a dirty piece of paper and handed it to her. “Take this and prepare to enter his inner sanctum. Follow the brilliance of the glow, and it shall lead you to the relics. May Atom’s radiance warm your soul.”

“And, uh, also to you,” Quinn replied. The brother beamed at her and inclined his head in her direction, before wandering away to the other side of the room and sitting down on top of his soiled sleeping bag.

“What is it?” asked Danse.

“I think it’s the terminal password,” Quinn replied, picking up a pencil off the desk and using the blunt end to type in the phrase _‘atomglory1’_ into the keyboard, to save her having to get out of her armour again. “Not the most challenging code, but…”

The terminal beeped, giving her the options screen. Using the pencil, Quinn navigated to the door controls, and there was a loud clunk below them as the locks deactivated.

“Excellent work,” Danse said, nodding at her. “Right, let’s move out. No idea what we’ll find in there…”

“At a guess, I’d say a shitload of nukes,” piped up Rachel.

Danse ignored her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning!
> 
> Next chapter may be delayed, as I'm away on the 24th-26th.


	36. Hope

As it turned out, a shitload of nukes was exactly what the holding area contained.

“I dunno, Rachel,” said Carson, scanning the crates with wide eyes. “Looks more like a fuckton to me.”

The Geiger counter on Danse’s suit began to crackle, and Quinn shot a look at him as she said, “One of the bombs might be leaking, sir.”

He was probably never going to get a better moment than this.

“Marguerie, Carson,” said Danse, “go back down the tunnel and guard it while Quinn and I do a quick search of the area. _No arguing._ You don’t have any armour, Knight-Sergeant, so we need to save our radiation medicine for when you go back across Glowing Sea. And given the fights we've been through so far, I’d be more comfortable with two of you watching the tunnels than just one. That being said...if there’s any trouble, come straight back.”

Rachel opened her mouth to argue, and then stopped, her eyes flicking from Danse, to Quinn, and then back again. A sly smirk spread across her mouth, and she grabbed Carson by the arm and pulled him, to no effect, as she said, “Yes, sir.”

“But—” began Carson.

“Goddamn it, Liam, move your ass!”

She gave Carson such an obvious look, that even Danse himself picked up on it, and he felt his cheeks burn. How did she always…?

Her intent apparently dawned on Carson, too, because he suddenly stammered, “Oh, uh, I—I mean, yes, sir!” He strode away without another word, almost knocking Rachel over in the progress.

She shouted at him all the way down the corridor and out of sight, her voice carrying on for another minute or so, until eventually the quiet returned. He felt uncomfortable sending them on off their own considering how many ghouls they had encountered, but given that they’d made it all the way here without another attack, Danse was confident that they had cleared them all out.

Still...

“So, what are we doing, sorry?” Quinn asked him, frowning. “We’re not counting all of this shit, are we?”

His words stuck in his throat again. Shaking his head, he strode off down the room, running his over thoughts. He’d been building up to this since they’d left the Prydwen. Well, alright, Danse hadn’t planned it to happen right _now_ , but when would he _ever_ get her on her own in a neutral area without something trying to kill them? Or even _worse,_ Marguerie interfering?

Maybe this was a bad idea. Too risky. What if he’d read her wrong? What if…?

His worries faded away as he turned to look at her, watching her trail after him, helmet under one arm, her features wrought with concern.

She had saved him today, saved him on more than one occasion. And not just from physical dangers, but from the flashbacks, too. Time and time again, Quinn was there, ready to help. No judgement or disappointment. Protecting him from others—protecting him from himself.

Danse’s heart hammered away, his mouth dry as his palms started to sweat. But he knew the time had come: tell her or move on.

Getting the words out was another matter entirely.

“Quinn, I…” he hesitated, his eyes drifting to the floor. Danse forced them up again and made himself hold her gaze. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly, damn it. “I…” He licked his lips. “Sorry, this is...difficult.”

She frowned, but said nothing.

Danse rocked on his heels for a moment, and then began to babble. “In the time that I’ve known you, we’ve been through a great deal together. I initially...had my reservations, not only about your origins, but your loyalty to the Brotherhood. But over time, that changed. My opinion, I mean. You’ve gone from being a total stranger to...to the best friend I’ve ever had. I trust you with my life. And I...I…”

He could feel his cheeks burning. Her expression wasn’t helping—she looked as if he’d hit her in the face.

_You could stop here. You haven’t compromised your friendship yet._

_Stop it now._

_Stop._

“And I just…” Danse soldiered on, his voice getting quieter with every passing second. “After what happened in the hospital, I just wondered if you wanted to talk about...I mean, if you would possibly consider being more...than…”

His voice trailed away, leaving only a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

Quinn stared at him, a faint blush rising in her own cheeks now. Then her mouth began to twitch, and Danse knew he had lost her before the laughter had so much as left her lips.

He winced. It hurt, but at least he had his answer.

“I apologise. It was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have overstepped my bounds like that.” He turned to walk back down the aisle of bombs, wishing the ground would just collapse and take him with it, when he heard her heavy footsteps and a panicked protest.

“No, Danse, wait!” Quinn grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her. There were dying traces of mirth still left in her expression, but her eyes were deadly serious. Mortified, even. “I wasn’t laughing _at_ you! I just…”

Danse felt his insides freeze with apprehension. Quinn made a vague, somewhat sheepish gesture.

“It’s just so typically you, y’know? Even with a topic like this, you started it by mentioning the Brotherhood.”

_Oh God, I did._

She grinned at him. “But that’s why I like you. If you’d brought it up any other way, I don’t think it would have worked half as well. Because that’s just the way you are.”

“Worked…?” His heart leap up into his throat.

“Yeah.” The smile disappeared, and Quinn looked nervous herself, the pink tinge returning to her skin as she turned her eyes down. “God, this is stupid. I’m nearly thirty. This shouldn’t be so…” She dragged her gaze up to meet his and frowned. “Yes, I want to talk about it. I think it’s been coming for a long while, but we’ve had so much shit to deal with that we’ve just been…”

“Ignoring it,” Danse said gently.

Quinn nodded. “But this isn’t the time or the place for such a discussion.”

“I know. When I planned this out in my head, I wasn’t envisioning being surrounded by enough explosives to level a continent.”

She laughed again, and Danse felt some of his nerves leave him. Others often struggled with his dry—and sometimes dark—sense of humour. Quinn understood. She always had.

“But I’m only willing to discuss this on one condition.”

Danse frowned. He had been expecting an outright refusal or an acceptance—but terms and conditions? “What—?”

“When we get back to the Prydwen, you go and see Cade and you tell him everything.”

“You _cannot_ be serious.”

“Try me, Paladin,” Quinn replied, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. “You want to talk about a relationship? Then you need to start working on helping yourself. You had a flashback in Boston when you promised me it would never happen on the field.”

“That was _one time.”_

“One time too many! You carry on like this and you’re going to get yourself and your team killed!”

Panic started to bubble up within him, rooting him to the spot. At once, Danse saw it all crashing down: the respect of his peers, his command, his _rank_. He was nothing without the Brotherhood, but to tell Cade that he was no longer capable of looking after himself on the field, let alone an entire _squad_ —the thought terrified him more than anything he had ever known. He’d be demoted, cast down and scorned for his weakness. He would be letting Krieg down, letting Elder Maxson down.

“I can’t,” he croaked, shaking his head. “I can’t do that, Quinn. Even for you.”

She glared at him. “You _can.”_

“No, I can’t.” The volume in his voice rose, but he barely noticed it. She had to know this. She _had to._ “I can’t lose everything I’ve spent my life building.”

Quinn blinked, surprised, and the scowl disappeared. She stepped closer to him and cocked her head, looking worried again. “This isn’t stubbornness, is it? What do you think is going to happen?”

Danse stared firmly at the floor as he repeated the thoughts in his head. He knew she wouldn’t drop it until he told her, and despite himself, it felt _right_ somehow. If one person deserved an explanation, it was her.

Quinn didn’t speak until he had finished, and even then, there was a long quiet. Doubts began to gnaw away at him. Had he said too much?

“Danse, look at me.”

With the greatest effort, he met her eye. She smiled at him. Sadly, yes, but still smiling.

Maybe there was hope after all.

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned forward, not breaking eye contact with him. His stomach clenched; she was so close.

“Danse,” she said again, so softly he could barely hear her. “Whatever happens, I will be with you every step of the way. If you go to Cade, you will get better. You won’t lose your rank or the respect of the people around you; if anything, they’ll respect you more. Because a real leader knows their limits, and they know when to step back and let others share the burden.”

“But…” He couldn’t even argue with her. He tried to look away again, but Quinn raised a hand and gently turned his face back towards hers.

“I just want you to be safe,” she went on. “And I’m willing to sacrifice happiness _with_ you to do that. But if you do want us to...if you want this to happen between us, then please, talk to Cade and let him _help_ you. Because I can’t stand the thought of losing you. And at the moment, I’m scared as hell that I will.”

Danse could picture it now. Long nights on the Prydwen, just the two of them. Together. And maybe she would even return with him to the Citadel when Maxson decided to finally leave the Commonwealth. There were a world of possibilities at his fingertips, but he feared to reach out and touch them.

“I…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm the sickening anxiety boiling away in the pit of his stomach as he fought the urge to close himself off again. But when he opened them, Quinn was still there, waiting, more patient than he had thought she was capable of. The tightness in his chest eased. She had seen him at his worst before, and she had remained at his side. Ever since he had met her, she had always been _there._

“Alright.”

Quinn looked stunned. She hesitated before she spoke. “You...you mean it?”

Danse nodded, a fresh wave of dread washing over him. But then she smiled, and the joy that radiated from her banished it all away, and all at once he saw a glimmer of things to come.

“When we get back to the Prydwen,” Danse said, trying to collect his mixed thoughts, “I’ll go see Cade, and then I’ll let you know.”

Quinn nodded. “Then we can talk. And if the talk goes well…” She shrugged and grinned.

Danse blushed. He wasn’t sure if she meant something more innocent or…

She seemed to pick up on what she had just implied and went bright red herself. “Not _that._ Not just yet. I, uh…”

He started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. The talk with Cade seemed far in the future, and in the presence of her blunder, the crippling panic slipped away, his mind clinging to this new distraction. Quinn was here right now and she was just so…

“Oh, shut up,” she said, still red in the face as she gave his arm a light punch, but she was grinning too. She took the beacon Haylen had given her out from her armour and set it down on a nearby forklift truck. “Right, in order to escape my embarrassment, I declare the mission a success. Let’s get out of here.”

Danse shook his head. “Negative. I have to stay until the vertibirds arrive.”

“Stay here?” Quinn frowned. “On whose orders?”

“Elder Maxson’s. I’m not to take my eyes off of these bombs until every last one of them has been counted, tested, and loaded. If we want Liberty Prime to reach peak fighting efficiency, we can’t afford to lose this stockpile.”

“If you think I’m leaving you here after all the bullshit that’s happened today—”

“Quinn, I’ll be fine.” His brow furrowed a little. “It’s you I’m worried about. The Glowing Sea is far more dangerous than here.”

_“I’ll be fine,”_ Quinn mimicked with an edge of annoyance . She sighed. “Look, we shouldn’t be arguing already. Let’s at least have a first date before we start bickering again.”

She laughed as his face went hot, and then shrugged in defeat. “Alright. I’m supposed to go straight back and you’re supposed to stay right here. Promise you’ll keep yourself out of harm’s way until the cavalry arrives?”

“Only if you promise to keep your head down until you’re back on the Prydwen.”

“Deal.”

The nervous atmosphere returned as they stared at each other, lost for words. Quinn gave an awkward giggle and Danse felt a stupid grin slip onto his face. Try as he might, he couldn’t get rid of it. But he didn’t mind too much. After all, she had said she would talk with him. That alone was enough to banish any negative thought.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you back on the Prydwen,” Quinn said finally, looking as if she had sunburn. She put her helmet back on with a clunk, and some of Danse’s unease returned with the added barrier.

“I’m...looking forward to it.” He meant it. The very concept filled him with a strange mix of emotions: dread, apprehension, resignation. He would have to confess to Cade after all. But there was also excitement, happiness, and...hope.

When was the last time he had hoped for anything?

She gave him a little wave as she left, throwing back glances in his direction as she took the long walk towards the exit. Danse watched her go, not turning away until she had rounded the corner and out of sight.

With a sigh, he paced up and down the aisles, letting his eyes wander over the rows of bombs, not paying them the slightest bit of attention. As the minutes dragged on, the cheer that had nestled within him slowly drained away, replaced by doubt and worry.

What if Quinn was wrong? What if…?

No. He had to stop this now before it got out of control. Whatever happened when he returned to the Prydwen, he couldn’t carry on like this. And Quinn had promised she’d help.

Danse leaned back against the crates of nukes, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in his head.

_This is how it starts, isn’t? I get close to someone, and then…_

Cutler. It all stemmed from Cutler.

Years and years of nightmares and guilt, slowly crushing him down into the dirt until he couldn’t move for the weight. Throwing himself into his work and pushing away anyone that tried to get too close. Drifting from one mission to the next, wondering when it would be the last, or who else would die under his guidance.

Staring down the desolate hall, Danse sighed as the old thoughts washed over him. It had been some time since he had allowed himself to trail down this path; he knew how he would feel at the end of it.

* * *

** 2284 **

Danse’s throat ached. Whether it was from the alcohol, or from the echoes of the imprints left behind by Cutler’s fingers, he didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Cutler was…

Danse poured out a shot and knocked it back, blearily noting that almost half of the bottle of vodka was gone, vaguely aware of the bin full of countless others he’d drunk throughout the week. He couldn’t think about it. He didn’t want to think about it. That Cutler was...that he had been…

_Turned._

Pressing a hand to his head, Danse swayed in his seat and hit the drink again, the vodka tasting like water on his numbed tongue. He felt dizzy, sick.

Alone.

There had been knocks at his door over the last week when he had not been on duty: Rachel Marguerie, Stephen Cooper, Vivian Cooper. Their presence would not soothe this wound in his chest that ripped and teared every time he thought of...of what he had found. Of what he had been forced to _do._ No, isolation was better than their pity, and so he had not answered, finding easier company in a bottle.

The snapped dog tags were laced around Danse’s fingers, glittering in the fluorescent lighting above. They were supposed to go to the next of kin, but Danse had not handed them in yet—he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to do it. Cutler’s tags...could he really just let them go?

A bang echoed at his door, and Danse sighed, the hand with the tags pressing against his forehead. How long would they persist with this? His grief wasn’t interfering with his work. Why couldn’t they just leave him be?

“Paladin Danse, unless you are otherwise indisposed, I am coming in now.”

The voice made his blood run cold and Danse rose to his feet, lurching dangerously as he clunked the bottle down on his desk. No, he didn’t want anyone to see him like this, especially not _him._ Maybe if he didn’t talk too much, he could get away with it. Maybe…

The door swung open and Elder Maxson walked in, holding himself with the authority of a man twice his age. He glanced over his shoulder into the corridor and then closed the door behind him, before turning and glaring at Danse.

“Paladin.” His voice was curt and sharp, condemnation dripping from it.

“Sir,” Danse replied, wincing at the slur on the _‘s.’_ There was no way to hide this—the man knew him too well. Slowly, Danse sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hand, groaning.

When he looked up again, Elder Maxson’s features had softened. He sighed and nodded towards the shot glass and bottle. “Mind if I join you?”

Danse didn’t reply, but pulled open the drawer in his desk, retrieving his other shot glass, and held it up to the dim light.

Danse hesitated. There was a small chip in the rim of the glass, courtesy of Cutler, the only person Danse had ever shared a drink with in his quarters, laughing and talking about the old days in Rivet City. The idiot had tried to do an impression of a mirelurk that had wormed its way into the marketplace and had tripped over his own feet, falling face first on the floor.

Danse turned the glass over in his hands, a stabbing pain in his chest, before reaching for the bottle.

“Leave it,” said Elder Maxson.

Danse glanced up, puzzled, to see him giving a small smile. He shook his head and motioned at the precious nothing in Danse’s hand.

“I can tell that the glass is...not mine to drink from. Leave it.”

Gratitude flooded through Danse, and he inspected the glass once more, giving a sad chuckle at the memory attached to it, before carefully placing it back in his desk. He looked up at the Elder.

“Arthur,” he said, before realising his mistake and quickly correcting himself. “I mean, _sir—”_

“Arthur is fine,” said Elder Maxson, and all at once, his entire demeanour seemed to shift. He was still Elder Maxson, leader of the Brotherhood and celebrated hero of countless feats. But he was also Arthur Maxson again, the grieving thirteen year old Danse had once comforted in the lonely corridors of the Citadel. The boy who had wanted books and wrote secret stories on his terminal that the entire Brotherhood knew about. The man who—despite all the pressures and expectations put upon him—had kept his moral code.

Danse leant forward onto his desk, propping himself up with his hand, and shut his eyes. The world spun around him, but he paid it no mind. He had put himself in a shameful position.

“You have my sympathies, Danse,” said Arthur finally, his voice gentle. “Knight-Captain Cutler was a good man. But you cannot go on like this. Your struggles have currently escaped the attention of the majority of the crew here, but if it continues, the whispers will begin. Not to mention this level of intoxication will eventually...affect you.”

“I’m fine,” Danse protested, but Arthur scoffed at him.

“You’re a poor liar,” he said. “Too honest...or perhaps just honest enough. But don’t lie to me. It’s unbecoming of you.”

Danse said nothing, deciding it was better to keep his eyes shut than look at the disapproval on his friend’s face.

“You know as well as I do,” Arthur went on, “that as a paladin, you are an example to others, and a pillar of support for your team. You cannot be those things if you spend your evenings in here, shutting yourself off from your brothers and sisters and numbing the pain with alcohol. The sooner you face the reality of the situation, the better.”

Danse finally opened his eyes, letting Arthur’s words wash over him, as he stared miserably at his shot glass. He was right, of course—the embarrassment he felt was all the proof he needed to know Arthur was _right._ Pushing both bottle and glass away, Danse nodded, and Arthur smiled. A flicker of something crossed his face, and then Arthur was gone. Elder Maxson had returned.

He straightened his uniform and turned to leave, but paused when Danse held something out to him.

“Knight-Captain Cutler’s tags,” mumbled Danse, staring at the floor. “I...they should be passed on to his family.”

There was a long silence, filled only by the hum of the ship.

“Did Knight-Captain Cutler have any next of kin?” he asked slowly.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Another pause. Then Elder Maxson cleared his throat and said, “In that case, Paladin, keep them. They are yours.”

Danse felt like he had been punched in the gut. He looked up at the Elder, lost for words, while the man in front of him gazed on placidly. His expression was impossible to read. Danse swallowed and stared back down at Cutler’s tags, noting the faint stain of blood still on them.

“...Thank you, sir.”

* * *

“So you talked? That’s it?”

Quinn laughed as Rachel fixed her with an intense look, as if trying to decide whether she was being lied to.

“Yeah, we just talked,” Quinn replied with a shrug. “And we’ll talk some more on the Prydwen when we get back and see how it goes.” She nodded towards the ship in the distance, now visible since they had made their way through most of the Boston ruins.

The knight-sergeant huffed but didn’t respond, wearing a sulky pout that didn’t match her weathered features, and pulled out a cigar, lighting it and puffing irritably on it.

Quinn smirked. Both Rachel and Carson had grilled her for details as they had made their way out of the military base and across the Glowing Sea. She had rebuffed their questions for a while, claiming the area was too unsafe to start gossiping— _“Aha! I knew something had happened!”_ —but once the radiation had settled and the dust clouds had cleared away, Rachel had dug her teeth into the topic once more.

“Give it a rest,” Carson said, pulling off his helmet and squinting up at the sun. But when the knight-sergeant turned to stare at him, her eyes blazing, he hastily followed up with, “Uh, I mean, you got your way. They’re gonna talk it out. Did you really expect anything else from Paladin Danse?”

“No,” Rachel agreed, still puffing away on her smoke, but less aggressively now. “I swear, that man needs to be smacked upside the—”

“Hey, boss!”

They all froze, Quinn scanning the landscape. She _knew_ that voice, but where was—?

_Crack._

A sniper round hit the dirt about ten feet to her right, and Quinn whipped around to see Robert Joseph MacCready perched on top of a nearby building, grinning as he lowered his rifle. Unfortunately for MacCready, Rachel had spotted him too.

She drew her pistol and fired once before Quinn managed to drag her arm down, shouting, “It’s okay, he’s a friend!”

The bullet missed him, lodging into a telephone wire pole right next to his head. Even from this distance, Quinn could tell he looked stunned.

“What the heck?” he yelled at her, shouldering his rifle and raising his hands.

“I was about to ask you the same thing!” Quinn shot back, shaking her head in disbelief. “Firing at people you barely know and not expecting a retaliation? What the _shit_ , MacCready?”

MacCready struggled down the building, his short legs pedalling as he tried to lower himself onto the dumpster below, before losing his grip and falling with a loud _bang._ Rachel laughed as he sat up, his face red and looking thoroughly disgruntled.

“Yeah, well,” he snapped, straightening his hat and brushing dust off his already filthy coat, “what I _wasn’t_ expecting was your friends to react so quickly. Or shoot that far without a rifle.” Apparently satisfied that the grime on his clothes was at an acceptable level, he strode over, still frowning. But Quinn could see his lips twitching, and she grinned at him.

After a few seconds, he relented and smiled back, before turning to Rachel. “That was a hell of a shot for a quick draw with a _pistol._ Almost as good as me.”

Rachel snorted, blowing a jet of smoke into the air, but she looked pleased. “Just lucky. For _you.”_

MacCready glanced back up at the telephone pole, and Quinn shivered. If the bullet had been just a little more to the left…

Oddly enough, he seemed pleased by this.

“Heck yeah, it was lucky for me!” His grin widened, showing his tarnished teeth, and he put a hand on his hip. “Seriously, I haven’t seen shooting like that in a while. I used to have to shoot for both of us when we travelled together.” A quick nod in Quinn’s direction made her realise who he was talking about.

“Hey!” Quinn exclaimed.

“Nothing’s changed then,” Rachel replied, as Carson began to snicker.

_“Hey!”_

Both Rachel and MacCready ignored her, eyeing each other up with mutual interest.

“MacCready,” he said, sticking out his hand. Quinn’s jaw dropped.

“Rachel.” She shook.

If it hadn’t been for the fact Quinn’s mouth was already hanging open, she would have let it drop in surprise again. Since when did MacCready act so warmly to strangers?

_Obviously when they nearly shoot him in the head,_ she thought, her brain trying to grapple with the situation. The last time she had seen MacCready, she had told him she was travelling with Nick Valentine to deal with Kellogg. He’d wanted to come along and argued with her until they were both hoarse, but she’d held her ground. MacCready had a son waiting for him, and with what had happened to Lucy…

No. She had forced him to stay behind. Told him to save his money and go back to D.C. Duncan needed him more than her. A bitter note to part on, and yet it didn’t seem to be affecting his mood towards her now.

“So, why are you here?” Quinn said, breaking the spell that hung over the two most sarcastic assholes in the Commonwealth. MacCready turned to her, the frown returning, and Quinn saw in the depths that he hadn’t completely forgiven her for their last talk.

“Saving up money, like you told me to,” he replied, his tone slightly cold. He paused and then sighed, shaking his head. “Sorry, sorry. I know we had to split the team for the right reasons, but…” He shrugged. “I could have helped you. I still owe you.”

“No, you don’t.” No matter how many times she made this point, he still insisted he was in her debt. “You gave me the wooden soldier, remember?”

“I know, but...my son’s life, Quinn,” he said weakly, with a small shrug. “I don’t think there’s anything I could do to repay that.”

“You’re a parent?” Rachel asked, raising an eyebrow as she chewed on her cigar.

MacCready nodded. “Yeah, why? Are you?”

Rachel hesitated. “I was.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said quickly, looking mortified, but the knight-sergeant shook her head.

“It’s fine. It’s in the past.” She turned to Quinn and Carson, shifting the rucksack on her shoulders. “Come on, we need to take this back to the ship.” Then, with a nod towards MacCready, she added, “If you’re going the same way, you can come with us.”

MacCready gave a small smile that she had brushed aside the intrusion into her privacy. “I’ve got a job in the Slog, so I’m headed your way.”

“The Slog?” both Quinn and Rachel asked at once.

He looked puzzled. “Uh, yeah. Why, what’s the big deal?”

“The Slog is supposed to be under Minutemen protection,” Quinn said, “and last I checked you’re not on Garvey’s payroll.”

_“Your_ payroll,” MacCready corrected. “And I know, but one of the ghouls made it to Goodneighbor and asked Hancock for some help. Turns out the Gunners are pressuring them for protection payment and threatening to destroy all their tarberry crops if they don’t cough it up. So the good ol’ Mayor directed ‘em to me. The Minutemen are capable, Quinn, but they aren’t quite equipped to deal with the Gunners.”

“And you _are?”_ Rachel asked, her tone suddenly sharp. Quinn glanced at her, perplexed, but before she could talk, MacCready shot back his reply.

“Yeah, I am.” He glared at her. “And I intend to wipe them out.”

“Room for one more then?”

A silence fell over this statement.

“Wait, you’re doing what now, Rachel?” Carson said, blinking. He looked just as startled as Quinn felt. Since when did Rachel Goddamn Marguerie work outside of the Brotherhood?

“Those fucking assholes kill kids,” the knight-sergeant snarled, rounding on them so fiercely, they both took a step back. “If you think I’m going to miss an opportunity for live target practice, then you can think again.”

“That’s nice and all, but I don’t split caps, sister,” MacCready said, folding his arms and scowling. “And I don’t remember inviting you to my job.”

“I don’t need an invitation,” Rachel snapped, whipping back around to face him. “I’m going. And you can keep your damn caps, too. The Brotherhood pays me my fair share. I don’t want your mercenary money.”

“A two sniper team won’t work.”

“Do you see me carrying a rifle?” She indicated to the pistols and the knife on her makeshift holsters. “Stealth Boys and close combat. Perfect distraction while you take them out from afar.”

MacCready said nothing for a moment, studying Rachel hard. Then he sighed. “Fine. The ghoul said they weren’t in any danger right now, so I guess you can go do whatever Brotherhood thing you’re doing, and then we’ll deal with the Gunners.”

For a moment, the knight-sergeant looked like she was having some sort of internal struggle. Then she said, “No immediate danger?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She marched off before MacCready could respond, and he turned to Quinn, looking a mix of confused and annoyed.

“Is she always like this?”

“Pretty much,” Carson said from behind the sniper. “But if there’s anyone you want in a fight, it’s her.” He shook his head, putting his helmet back on with a clunk, and then stomped off after the knight-sergeant.

“Sorry,” said Quinn with a small shrug at her friend. She rubbed the back of her head and gave a long, weary sigh. “And...and not just about her. About a lot of things. I shouldn’t have knocked back your help the way I did. And I should have gotten in contact after Kellogg, but…”

“I know.” MacCready’s face softened now. Most of the time he was a bundle of sarcasm and ego, but there were rare glimmers of sincerity beneath the bravado that made his concern all the more genuine. “Hancock told me everything while I was in Goodneighbor. I’m...I’m so _sorry,_ Quinn.”

“Thanks,” she managed, dropping her gaze.

MacCready clapped his hand on her shoulder and gave her a little shake. “Look, I know last time we spoke we...well, had differences in opinion. But you’ve always helped me. I’m here for you.”

Quinn placed her hand on top of his and gave his fingers a little squeeze. “Thank you,” she repeated. “Seriously.”

He grinned. “Hancock _also_ mentioned something about a guy called Paladin Da—”

His words were cut off as Quinn reached over and yanked his hat down as far as it would go.

“You ass,” she said fondly.

* * *

The mood on the Prydwen was tense.

Quinn sensed it as soon as she stepped aboard. Even Proctor Ingram, who had allowed Quinn to activate Liberty Prime, had seemed somewhat distracted in the wake of such a monumental achievement. Maxson wanted to see her. No explanation. He wanted to see her _now._

Carson and Rachel followed her, looking uneasy themselves. Not one of the grunts they passed in the corridors had an explanation for why everyone was on edge, only that the officers had started acting strangely a few hours after the vertibirds had returned from the Glowing Sea.

No matter. Once she had spoken to Maxson, she could find Danse. Maybe he would be able to tell her what was going on.

_Danse._

Had he spoken to Cade yet? Or was he waiting for her to get back before he broached the subject with the doctor? Maybe he had changed his mind completely. God, she hoped not.

But all thoughts of Danse were driven from her mind when she saw the look on Maxson’s face.

His eyes bored into her, before flitting to Carson and Rachel in turn. Quinn never thought she would see Rachel uncomfortable, but the knight-sergeant squirmed on the spot at Maxson’s ruthless gaze.

“Wait outside,” he said to them. “I will speak to each of you separately.”

Both of them saluted and left, their footsteps betraying their eagerness to be away from the Elder’s wrath. Quinn swallowed, wondering what the hell it was all about, when a nasty thought hit her. Had Maxson found out that Shaun was the Director of the Institute? The very idea made her blood run cold.

She waited.

When the sounds of her friends faded away, Maxson spoke again, his voice crackling with damnation.

“Is there anything you wish to tell me, Knight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title. Thank you to feltmyheart and archie of tumblr for their help with the characterisation of MacCready.
> 
> And thank you for all the wonderful comments!


	37. Blind Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Apologies for the lateness. As a Brit, I forgot that the 4th of July was a thing, and so my beta was away this weekend.
> 
> DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT WANT MAJOR BROTHERHOOD/DANSE SPOILERS.
> 
> (I am a lil’ bit nervous about this chapter…)

* * *

_“As the minutes tick by and I stare at the walls of this godforsaken place, I'm still trying to cope with the reality that I am a living lie.”_

* * *

_Synth._

Danse stumbled through the desolate hills, his breathing ragged as he pushed aside the dead vegetation and scanned the horizon for moving shadows.

_Synth._

The word—that goddamn _dirty_ word—reverberated over and over in his head. It was false. Everything. Had any of it _ever_ been real? Was he even the original Danse?

_Synth._

His hand stuck to the metal of the laser pistol Haylen had given him as she had smuggled him off the Prydwen. Haylen, the stupid girl. She had risked her life to help him escape. Risked it all for something that wasn’t even alive. In any other situation, he would have berated her for such thoughtless idiocy, but at the height of his panic, he had taken the selfish option instead.

_Couldn’t even die like a man. Had to flee like a machine._

_Synth._

His life wasn’t supposed to end like this; he had been destined to die in battle alongside his brothers and sisters, not chased to the ends of the earth like an animal.

Danse slowed, the fight leaving him. What was he _doing?_ He stared down at his hands, images flashing before his eyes of the data pad Haylen had showed him. A data pad bearing undeniable proof of his disgrace. He was nothing but an Institute plant; every second he stayed alive was a betrayal of the Brotherhood, and of Maxson. By existing, he was degrading the very foundations on which all his principles stood.

He glanced back at the trail he had come from and swallowed, his throat tight. Danse needed to go back. He _had_ to go back.

He continued forward, the disgust burning within him as he made his way down to the old bunker.

* * *

_“My identity as Paladin Danse is nothing but a memory now. Everything I held dear, everything I've ever believed in is completely gone.”_

* * *

_“Bullshit.”_

Maxson raised an eyebrow at her. “Excuse me?”

_“Bullshit,”_ Quinn repeated. “You heard me. Bullshit! There’s no way that Danse is a synth. He _hates_ synths. How can you even—?”

“The evidence is conclusive, Knight.”

“I don’t give a _shit!”_ Quinn snapped, her voice rising as her heart pounded so loudly it felt like it was going to drown out the conversation. “I don’t give a shit whatever damn evidence Quinlan pulled from his ass! He is _not_ a synth! He’s not! It’s...it’s fucking _bullshit!”_

Maxson said nothing. He closed his eyes and deep a deep breath through his nose, and exhaled slowly, before opening them again. The anger was gone. Instead, he simply looked tired.

“He is a synth,” Maxson said, his tone firm. “But at the very least, I believe now that you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know?” Quinn laughed—it was an ugly noise that sounded near hysterical. “Know _what?_ He’s not. A goddamn. _Synth.”_

“Every soldier in the Brotherhood has their DNA on record. The data that you brought from the Institute also had DNA of their rogue synths, and one particular synth—listed as _M7-97_ —was an _exact match_ for Paladin Danse. You cannot refute the evidence.”

“I’ll refute as much as I damn well please,” she replied, but she had lost some of her conviction. The more Maxson persisted, the more difficulty she was having denying it. Had Danse been lying to her all this time? Had he been spying for Shaun?

“Oh God,” she whispered, grabbing at her hair. “He’s...he’s really a synth?”

Maxson nodded.

“Where is he?” Quinn asked, dreading the answer. “Let me talk to him, please.”

“He’s gone AWOL.” The rage had returned to the Elder’s face again, raw and consuming, with whispers of betrayal woven deep into its core. “Disappeared without a trace. His sudden absence simply reinforces our conclusion that _“M7-97”_ and Paladin Danse are one in the same. However, that doesn't absolve you of your duty. Danse is a synth. He represents everything we hate...a _monstrosity_ of technology. Our mission in the Commonwealth is clear. The Institute and its creations need to be destroyed in order to preserve our future.”

He paused, and the mask cracked. How long had Maxson been sitting on this information, mulling it over in his head, trying to plan his next move?

Eventually, he forced his words out, quickly, as if they tainted his very tongue by uttering them. “Which leaves me facing the most difficult order I’ve ever given. I’m ordering you to hunt down Danse and execute him.”

“No.”

Had Maxson been expecting such an answer? Quinn didn’t know. She didn’t care, either. Like hell she would hurt Danse.

“You will do it,” Maxson snapped, after a few moments of stunned quiet. “This is not up for judgement or debate. I’m giving you a direct order, Knight, and I expect you to follow it without question.”

Another fleeting stretch of silence. Then Maxson gave a heavy sigh, his demeanour changing entirely. All the authority seemed to sap away from him, leaving only confusion and regret.

“Listen, I’m not blind to the fact Danse was your mentor, and this isn’t an easy burden to bear. But if we’re to remain strong, we can’t afford to make exceptions…” He hesitated, seeming to struggle with himself, and Quinn caught a glimpse of something painful beneath the anger. His next words were tinged with bitterness and mingled with defeat. “Even when it means executing one of our own.”

Quinn opened her mouth to tell Maxson to stuff it, when the memory of Rachel gunning down the synth floated to the surface of her mind. She felt her stomach turn. If she went under the guise of an execution, Danse had a chance to escape. But if Quinn refused, and Maxson sent someone in her place...there would be no mercy.

She could play Maxson’s game. She could find Danse. Quinn _had_ to find Danse. In the face of such accusations, she might be the only person left on his side. And she would be damned if she’d let anyone take him from her.

Quinn met the Elder’s eye and nodded. “You’re right, sir. It’s...I’m sorry for what I said. It’s just...so _much._ But you’re right. Tell me what I have to do.”

“Find Proctor Quinlan,” Maxson replied, giving her an approving look. “He’s been analysing the data and should be able to provide you with a starting point.” He paused. “And Knight, there’s a promotion for you riding on the results of these orders, so don’t disappoint me.”

He turned back towards the window and stared out into the darkening skyline.

“You’re dismissed.”

She saluted, glad he wasn’t looking to see the loathing glare she was unable to keep from her face, and then strode from the room. Quinn didn’t know what was worse: that they were doing this to Danse, or that Maxson thought the idea of a promotion was enough to tempt her into murder.

_Fuck your promotion and fuck you,_ she thought, her blood boiling at the insult of it all. _My loyalty is stronger than a title, and it sure as hell isn’t loyalty to you._

_Danse._

_God, where are you?_

* * *

_“I've spent far too long wondering why this happened to me, but the truth is, it doesn't matter.”_

* * *

The conversation with Haylen was running on repeat in Quinn’s head. She had been cornered by the scribe while going over records with Proctor Quinlan, and taken somewhere private. As it turned out, she had asked for Danse’s life to be spared. One question in particular stood out to Quinn.

_“Do you actually plan on killing Paladin Danse?”_

No. God, no. The idea of even hurting him made her feel physically sick. She could no more kill him than she could have killed Nate. Even with the chance that Danse was an Institute spy, feeding everything she had told him back to Shaun, she still couldn’t bear the thought of bringing him to harm. She would still let him go.

_Maybe he’s laughing at me now,_ Quinn thought bitterly. _Maybe he saw how I felt and thought stringing me along while he spied on me would be such a great fucking joke._

And yet she knew this was false. Even without all the evidence against it, all his work helping her fight the Institute, protecting her at every turn, being there when she needed him the most...somehow, she _knew_ it had been genuine. Quinn couldn’t say how she was so certain of it, just that the person she had known, the person she cared about, still existed.

That made it all the more worse.

_“I’m ordering you to hunt down Danse and execute him.”_

Her anger returned in full force. How could Maxson do this to him? After everything Danse had done for the Brotherhood, and they were going to put him down like some fucking feral dog?

Quinn stopped and blinked as she realised where she had walked to. Feeling slightly apprehensive, she opened the door and stepped into Danse’s room.

Everything was still the same the last time she had been here, knocking in the early hours of the morning to ask him to go with her to the Glowing Sea. He’d replied _“yes”_ before she’d even finished the question, his tired eyes becoming alert at once. When questioned as to whether he’d have issue travelling with her after what had happened in the hospital, and then later in the workshop, his answer had been short and to the point.

_“Where you go, I go, soldier.”_

As far as he had been concerned, that had been the end of the matter. Though Quinn tried to press him for more information, he had refused, telling her to get some sleep before the journey the following day. She had felt his gaze on her as she had left, following her every move.

And then at the military base, she had finally learned what was wrong.

“God _damn it.”_

Quinn aimed a kick at an ammunition box on the floor, hissing as pain shot up her foot. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Danse was going to get better. They were going to talk. And even though they hadn’t directly said it, they had both known the talk could have only ended one way. Happiness had been right there, and now it was being ripped away from her.

Fury at the unfairness of it all rose up like fire on kindling, and for a split second, she had the urge to trash the place until all of her rage was spent. But then she stopped. This room had been... _was_ Danse’s. It had been left like this by him. Every detail, every careless component, was a final echo of what he was.

Paladin Danse.

Quinn sank to the floor at the foot of the bed and leaned against it, her face in her hands. She had no tears and yet she felt she was suffocating. Whatever happened when she found him— _if_ she found him—nothing could go back to the way it was. And it was all her fault. She had handed over the data to Maxson. She had condemned him.

A grinding noise made her open her eyes, and she looked up to see Carson enter. Her body tensed at the sight of him. This was Danse’s room. His privacy. Carson had no right being here.

_Neither do you._

“Quinn?” Carson looked shell shocked, his skin an ashy grey as he twisted his hands together. “I saw you come in here. Are you…? Is it…? _Fucking hell.”_

He strode across the room, dropped to his knees, and pulled her into a bone-crunching hug. Quinn didn’t care. She clung to him the way a child would cling to a parent, scrunching up his uniform between her fingers as she pressed her face into his shoulder. It hurt so much.

Carson said nothing, rocking her on the spot as he held her in his arms. Quinn had no idea how long they stayed like that, but he didn’t complain.

If only Danse was here. If only she could _talk_ to him. All she wanted was the truth. Instead, she was left with confusion, her opinion on the matter shifting with every passing second. Only one constant remained: she would not hurt Danse.

Though Quinn wanted to do nothing except stay in Carson’s embrace, she pulled away from him, breathing heavily through her nose. She had to stay calm.

“Did Maxson tell you everything?” Her voice came out as little more than a croak.

Carson nodded. “He said that...that Paladin Danse is a synth. And that he’s on the run. He wanted to know if we knew anything about it.”

“And did you?”

“For God’s sake, Quinn. Of _course_ I didn’t. No one did.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “Rachel...Rachel didn’t take the news very well.”

“Me neither.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Sighing, Carson rubbed the back of his neck. “Rachel thinks he’s a traitor. An Institute plant.”

“And what do you think?”

“I…” Carson hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

“No one will know but me,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it.

“I...I don’t know what to think.” He glanced around the room before continuing in a low voice. “I dunno, Quinn. The officers say synths are the enemy, but some of them escape the Institute, don’t they? Your friend Nick did, and he seemed alright when I met him. It’s...well, just because Danse is a synth, doesn’t mean he knew what he was or was ever here to hurt us. It doesn’t mean he has to die, does it?”

“I never thought I’d hear that from someone in the Brotherhood,” Quinn replied softly. “It’s damn refreshing.”

Carson shrugged. “Look, I’m not pretending to know all the facts. I don’t. He might still be the enemy. It’s just at the moment, I’m not convinced he _is_ either. But I know what Elder Maxson has told you to do, and...and regardless of what choice you make, I know it will be for the right reasons. You have my support, whatever happens.”

Quinn stared at him, feeling nothing but love for her friend. He was a good man. A _good_ man. Too good for the Brotherhood.

_Clang._

Both of them looked up to see Rachel Marguerie standing at the door.

If Quinn had thought Carson had looked rough, it was nothing compared to the knight-sergeant. She was on an entirely different level. Her eyes were red and puffy, her body trembling while a muscle jumped in her jaw. But when she spoke, her voice was clear and hard. “Carson, I need to talk to Quinn. Give us a moment, please.”

“But—”

_“Please.”_

Carson and Quinn glanced at each other. The pleading note was unmistakable in her voice, and for the first time, Quinn could see that Rachel was on the brink of cracking.

The knight-sergeant didn’t speak again until Carson had left. She settled herself on the floor opposite Quinn, gazing off into the distance as if walking through a dream. When Rachel finally held Quinn’s gaze, she recognised the dead, unfocused quality of the knight-sergeant’s eyes. It was the same look she had seen in the mirror only a few months previous.

“Maxson told us everything,” Rachel said, and despite the flatness of her voice, she was unable to hide the obvious effort to keep it steady. “And once he was certain we knew nothing, he let us go. We’re confined to the Prydwen, though, along with everyone else that was friendly with the synth.”

_The synth._

Was she so quick to condemn him? Quinn held her tongue. If she gave away her feelings on the matter, Maxson could stop her from finding Danse. And then there would be no hope for him.

“I asked him why he would send you,” Rachel continued, staring blankly ahead again. “Told him I would put it down. That I had more of a stake in its death. That I should be the one to kill it for betraying us all. For...for betraying me.” She swallowed and shook her head. “He said he knew I would do the job properly. And that’s why I’m not going.”

Quinn frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He’s testing you, Quinn.” This time, the emotion broke through, and her face twisted into a frightening rage. “Maxson knew what was going on between you two. Everyone fucking knew. And he also thinks you’re still a valuable asset to the Brotherhood. This is a test of your loyalty as much as it is a necessity. So for your own sake, put aside everything you ever felt about that thing, and kill it.”

“The same way you killed George?” Quinn’s scowl deepened. “Oh, that’s right. You didn’t do that, did you? So you’re the exception now?”

“My husband and my daughter were victims of the Brotherhood’s enemies. They never worked for either side. Never infiltrated the ranks and pretended to be something they weren’t.”

“You don’t know that Danse did any of that. He might not even know he’s a synth.”

“Doesn’t matter. The Institute likely had access to it. We’ll be lucky if they haven’t found out about Prime yet.”

“Look at how you’re talking! _‘Likely’_ they had access to him? You don’t know _shit._ You’re just guessing. And after everything he’s ever done for us, we’re going to just execute him based entirely on _‘maybes?’”_

“Everything it did was a lie, Quinn.” Rachel’s face softened, and all at once Quinn felt the knight-sergeant’s grief hit her. “Everything it did was just a way for us to trust it so it could infiltrate our ranks. Every kind word, every good deed or selfless decision...it was all an act. Or it replaced the real Paladin Danse a long time ago. But whatever that thing is, even if it didn’t know what it was, synths are just machines. They’re _programmed_ to behave a certain way. They don’t think on their own.”

Quinn said nothing, instead staring at her feet. Rachel was full of shit. She had seen Nick and the way he had mourned Jenny, the way he had cared for her at her lowest, and the way he helped others for such little gain. And Danse himself. His nightmares and his guilt over the members of his team...and of Cutler.

Both of them were so goddamn _human._

“Quinn.”

Quinn met Rachel’s eye again.

“If this had been the other way around, do you really think Danse would have spared you?”

She felt as if she had been slapped.

Would Danse have killed her for being a synth, after everything they’d been through together?

The most disturbing part of the question was that Quinn couldn’t answer it. Only Danse would be able to tell her whether she was worth more than his principles, and she would probably never get the chance to find out.

Rachel leaned forward and put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder.

“If there’s anything in that synth that truly believed in the Brotherhood, it will want you to follow your orders. If it really didn’t know what it was, it will want to die. You’d be doing it a favour more than anything else. And if it did know...then it deserves to be executed.”

The knight-sergeant let go and stood up, wiping at her eyes. Her face hardened. “I only wish I could do it myself.”

Rachel left, and Quinn sat in silence, trapped by her thoughts, the awful truth dawning on her. Deacon had warned her about this. Deacon had been _right._

_“Brotherhood influence is never good. How long until you're murdering ghouls and synths like the rest of them?”_

Quinn put her head in her hands.

* * *

_I am a synth...which means I am freak of nature, a perversion of science and an example of where mankind has gone wrong.”_

* * *

Time ceased to exist, the whirring of the bunker’s activated defences his only companion in the heavy silence.

_Synth._

The cruel irony of it all made his head hurt, and Danse bit his lip as his thoughts drifted back to Sanctuary.

_“That thing is an it, not a man!”_

Had that really been the first time he had ever met a synth? Quinn was lucky he hadn’t just shoved her aside and blown the damn thing’s head off. The synth—

Danse hesitated. He was ‘the synth’ now as well. If that detective ever heard about this, it would be laughing itself hoarse at the way everything had turned out. Would probably rub elbows with Quinn, mocking Danse for being the very thing he despised.

_No, Quinn wouldn’t do that._

_Would she?_

Danse didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. The fury that Quinn had held when he had threatened the syn—the _detective_ in Sanctuary all that time ago was still clear in his mind. She had begged him not to hurt her friend. Called the machine a ‘good man’, despite it being anything but human...but the detective was _obviously_ a synth. It had never tried to hide what it was from her.

He, on the other hand...he had led her to think he was a real person. His deception hadn’t been deliberate—Danse had never been able to tolerate the thought of lying to her—but it didn’t matter. The guilt was still there, tearing away at his insides. This was an entirely different situation, and Danse knew she would feel betrayed. Not that he blamed her. He probably would have as well.

It felt like years had passed since he had last seen her. Danse hoped Quinn had made it safely back to the Prydwen. Maybe he should have disobeyed Maxson’s orders and gone with her. In the great scheme of things, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The Brotherhood would have gotten its nukes regardless and Quinn would have reached the ship unharmed. He would have likely been apprehended or shot on sight by the time they had made it home, but it would have been a small price to pay to know she was safe.

And what of Maxson himself?

His most trusted officer turned traitor. Danse knew now that leaving had only made things worse. Instead of accepting what he was and his punishment for it, he had fled. One final insult to the man he had called his friend.

Did the Elder even want him alive anymore? Or perhaps their history together had granted him some form of reprieve, enough for him to be considered a lost cause, rather than tracked down and dealt with? That could possibly be the reason why no one had come for him yet.

A nauseating thought wormed its way into his mind.

When Cutler had been captured by the mutants, had he waited like this, knowing his fate, wondering if anyone would be sent to find him? Danse could picture it now: Cutler sat in some miserable prison while the mutants butchered his team, each passing moment adding to the mounting feeling of tension and resignation, until eventually he was dragged from his cell and turned into everything he had hated.

No one had come for Cutler.

No one was coming for him.

Danse shifted on his spot on the floor, his fingers tightening around his gun. The reality of his situation was finally hitting him. He _was_ Cutler.

A monster—a mockery of everything he had believed, twisted beyond all recognition and made into an instrument of the enemy. But whereas Cutler had once been human, he had always been…

Splintering pain exploded through his head, and the laser pistol tumbled from his hand with a clatter. But Danse barely noticed, clutching at his hair, his face buried in his knees as he tried to fight the overwhelming rush of the past.

* * *

_“...for the benefit of humanity, I need to die. Not because I'm cowardly or despondent…”_

* * *

** 2286 **

“Because you are my most trusted officer, Danse.”

He was in Rivet City again, the silent marketplace more familiar to him now than the halls of the Citadel. Danse edged down the stairs, rifle in hand, as he watched the lone figure standing in the centre of the room.

No, not alone. A crumpled figure lay next to them.

The stranger turned as Danse approached, and he felt himself relax at the sight of Elder Maxson. He looked more serious than Danse had ever seen him before, ignoring the body at his feet.

With as much delicacy as he could muster, Danse said, “Thank you, sir, but the Commonwealth? Is it wise to take the Prydwen straight to the enemy? We don’t even know where the Institute resides.”

Elder Maxson nodded as if he had been expecting this statement. He paced up and down, gesturing as if looking out of a window that wasn’t there, stepping over the person on the floor without pause.

“That’s why I am sending you ahead, Paladin. You’ve been at my side for as long as I can remember, and with the mission comes the lives of everyone aboard this ship. You are the only one I can entrust this to.”

The idea of turning their sights on the Institute with such little information unsettled Danse, but Elder Maxson had not led them astray so far.

He nodded. “By your orders, sir.”

Danse turned to leave, when the Elder spoke again.

“Danse?”

“Yes, si—”

He was cut off as a pair of thick, yellow-green hands fastened around his throat, the mutant slamming him into the ground. As soon as he had seen the tags cutting into its neck, he had known. All of his orders—all the commands he had given his team—had flown completely from his mind as he had tore after the mutant wearing Cutler’s dog tags. Now he was alone with it and paying for his stupidity.

The hands pressed down, the pressure so hard Danse thought his neck would snap. Without thinking, he reached for the pistol at his leg, and drew it. The mutant, too focused on throttling him, did not notice.

Maybe there was a way to return Cutler to normal. Maybe Cutler still knew him. Maybe—

Elder Maxson stood over him, watching impassively as the paladin choked and struggled on the floor. A strange expression flickered across his face, but disappeared almost instantly. “There is a bright future ahead for the Brotherhood. For both of us. But the Commonwealth is a dangerous place. Please, be careful.”

_I will,_ Danse tried to respond, but the words were trapped in his throat by the fingers pinning them in place. Maxson watched for a moment, and then turned and walked away, leaving him alone.

The creature howled with laughter as it leaned forward, putting all its weight behind its grip. And Danse realised in that moment there was no going back.

He raised the gun to the mutant’s head.

* * *

_“...but because it's the human thing to do…”_

* * *

Danse gasped, shuddering back to life to find himself face down on the floor. He dug his fingers into the concrete, the fabric of his gloves snagging on the rough surface. The joints in his hands ached as he wheezed, trying to banish the ghosts pressing their thumbs deep into his neck. While the physical marks were long gone, the ones in his memory had never truly left. Sweat poured off him as he shook and twitched, trying desperately to keep hold of reality.

_Breathe, breathe. Breathe._

Finally, his throat began to loosen, and he took a deep breath, his chest heaving as he lay there, the pain in his head unbearable.

With trembling arms, Danse pushed himself up and spat out the dust that had made its way into his mouth, before dragging himself back over to wall and propping up against it. Something dug uncomfortably into his leg, and he reached down to find the laser pistol, cold and heavy.

Waiting for him.

Maybe it was for the best. No matter what happened now, he was condemned. Not only by the people he had served alongside and by the people he loved, but also by himself. He could feel the hatred crawling through his being, a sensation so repulsive Danse could barely stand it. And the nightmares...he would never be free of them. There was no one to help him. He had lost the Brotherhood. He had lost Cade. He had lost Quinn.

All it would take was one pull of the trigger, and it would be over.

_It would be over._

Serenity swept over him. Danse didn’t want to die, but living...each beat of his heart was an insult to everything he believed in. This was a chance to atone. A chance to make things _right._ And in the midst of this chaos that had turned his life upside down, there was a sudden clarity. Danse finally felt in control at last.

With a groan, he got to his feet and made his way back into the main area. He had spotted a blank holotape on the desk when he had activated the bunker defences. Almost as if it had been made for him. Made for this moment.

Haylen would mourn his passing. Possibly Quinn, too. But they would get over it. And they’d be better off without him regardless.

_Synth._

Danse sat down at the terminal and picked the tape up, scratching the yellow, peeling label off the plastic casing. He inserted it into the machine. Maybe no one would ever come for him. Maybe they had decided he was not worth the effort, or that he was a blight best forgotten than pursued. But if they did catch up to him, their job would already be done.

He tapped through the command settings on the terminal, until he reached the appropriate function. Danse paused, leaning forward towards the microphone, his head in his hand. Then his resolve hardened. Whatever the truth might be, it was the right thing to do. He only hoped Quinn would forgive him for his shame.

Danse licked his lips and pressed the record button.

He talked and talked until there was nothing left to say. What else _could_ he say? That he was sorry? That his death would prevent any further information going to the Institute? That he was glad that he had been discovered before he had been made to do something abhorrent?

And Quinn…

No. Better for her to forget all about him. If he left her a message, it would only muddy the issue. If she hated him, if she was repulsed by what he was, then her pain would not be so great. Soon he would be just another broken machine.

Danse ejected the holotape and picked it up before trailing towards the back room and laying it on the counter. But his nerves would not allow him to settle. He paced up and down, his heart jittering in his chest as his fingers flexed on the gun. If he waited, maybe he would be spared long enough to face Maxson’s judgement. And then maybe he would able to see Quinn one last time.

The thought made him stop in his tracks. It wasn’t enough that he had sullied the name of the Brotherhood with his very being, but now he was willing to rub salt in Quinn’s wounds with his presence, and for what? To fulfil some kind of selfish desire?

Anger bubbling within him, Danse dropped back down to his space on the floor, steeling himself. It all came down to duty. It always had. And he had one last act to complete.

A sense of calm washed over him as he took a deep breath.

Danse put the gun to his temple.

* * *

_“This is Danse, former Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, signing off.”_


	38. The Hardest Choice

 

The whir of the elevator stayed his hand.

_They were here._

Who had come for him, Danse wondered? Knight-Sergeant Marguerie, perhaps? She was as ruthless as she was loyal, and if he could depend on anyone to put him down, it was her. He smiled, his heart settling somewhat. Yes, he hoped it was Marguerie. She would do the right thing. Danse knew she would.

Out of the elevator stepped Quinn.

As the security defences opened fire, Danse leapt to his feet, terror streaking through him. The defences he’d turned on had slipped his mind completely, and she was without her power armour.

_Why did she leave her armour?_

But as Danse made to help her, it became apparent that his fears were unfounded. Within seconds, the sparking remains lay scattered around Quinn. How could he have forgotten her talent for destruction so quickly? Danse watched her step over the scrap, and managed a small smile as she kicked the singed metal aside, before cursing and clutching at her foot.

An old, familiar warmth spread through his chest as he studied her. Now that she was here, he had maybe half an hour at best. Minutes at worst. He let his eyes roam, drinking in every precious detail, from her sharp, blue eyes, to the fresh, jagged scar that ran down her face.

The way she held her rifle, close to her chest as if she was constantly afraid of dropping it. The string which looped through her wedding ring, just poking out from the collar of her uniform. Her blonde hair, which she kept short and yet it still managed to be a mess. _“Because I can’t be bothered with it now the world has ended,”_ she had said when he had told her she needed to look tidier when not on the field. Then she had pointed to his beard.

_“You can’t complain, paladin.”_

He felt like laughing again. Every single meaningless detail, so mundane. So goddamn important.

Finally, their eyes met.

“Danse!” she yelled, running over and banging on the glass.

He studied her frantic face for a moment longer, and then turned away, moving out of sight. Now that she was here, it was obvious that Quinn had to be chosen for this. Her loyalty needed to be tested, for the good of the Brotherhood.

Danse understood. He accepted it. He wanted to keep her safe, and if dying helped achieve that, then so be it. Duty aside, he suspected it would bring her closure; destroy the lying machine once she had all the explanations she desired.

No, he couldn’t take that away from her.

Danse glanced up to see that Quinn had disappeared from view; seconds later she came racing around the corner, her eyes fixed on the pistol in his hand. She seemed lost for words, the silence between them becoming unnerving.

He realised he was so tired of it all. His time in the Brotherhood had felt like a constant battle between his obligations and his opinions as of late. Even with Cutler, Danse had taken those final steps, not because he had believed they were right, but because they were what he had been taught.

Time and time again, he had put aside personal feelings for the organisation he held so dear. Elder Maxson had always benefitted from the presence of an older, highly-trained paladin at his side.

And like a good soldier, Danse obeyed.

Now Maxson was using Quinn to kill him. Quinn, who regardless of how she felt towards him, regardless of what loyalties she had to prove, was being given a heavy burden to bear.

In his core, Danse felt a glimmer of doubt.

“I’m not surprised Maxson sent you,” he said, bitterness surging through him, amplifying his confusion. His thoughts were muddled, flicking between relief at her presence and wishing he could have died alone. “He never liked to do the dirty work himself.”

The conflict was making his head hurt. Danse knew he had to be destroyed, and yet he couldn’t keep the resignation from his voice. Why the uncertainty? He was a monster. He was everything wrong with the Commonwealth, everything that had caused humanity to fall. He was no longer the man that had stood at Maxson’s side for all these years, the man who did whatever it took to uphold the name of the Brotherhood. Whatever happened now, whether he lived or not, he would never be those things again.

He wasn’t even a _man._ He was nothing.

_So why does this feel so wrong?_

Programming. That’s what it came down to. _Programming._ The Institute had made him this way, that was all.

_But the Brotherhood has, too._

Danse groaned, pressing the cold pistol against his forehead. It hurt so damn much.

“Put the gun down, Danse,” Quinn said, a note of panic mingled with her words.

He frowned at her, lowering his hand. “You see me as a threat?”

Something flickered across her features, an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Then it was gone, replaced with a strange, almost forced blankness.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just put it down and slide it towards me.”

It was a fair enough request. After all, he was an unknown entity. Danse placed the pistol on the floor, the safety on, and knocked it over to her with his foot. Quinn picked it up, emptied the cartridges out, and tucked it away in a pocket of her uniform. When she turned back, she had that same strange expression again, only this time it lingered.

“Anything else on you?”

“No.”

She nodded and then sighed. “I wish you’d told me the truth.”

“I might have, if I’d known what I was,” he said, shaking his head as he looked her in the eye. She _needed_ to understand this. The fact she thought he had lied to her bothered him more than anything else.

“You didn’t know?” Quinn whispered.

Now there was an emotion he recognised. The relief was as plain as day, and in an instant Danse realised why. Her plans against the Institute. Her _son._ She had told him all of it, and if he had willingly been under the control of Shaun…

“No,” he said quickly, horror welling up in him at the implications of his identity. “No, I didn’t know, I promise. Until Quinlan got that list decoded, I—"

He never finished his sentence. Quinn dropped her rifle without ceremony as she ran towards him, throwing her arms around his neck and dragging him down into a tight embrace.

“Thank _God_ you’re okay,” she whispered into his ear, her grip almost painful. “Thank _God_ I got here first.”

She broke away from him, her usual tanned skin now as pale as the wasteland sky, her fingers digging into his arms.

“What are you—?” Danse began, but Quinn cut across him.

“Maxson’s ordered me to kill you, so we need to work fast. I don’t know how much of a head start we’re going to have to get away from him, but for now, he thinks I’m loyal.”

_No. No, no no. She still cares about me._

“Quinn, don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. In that moment, it was all so clear to him: what he was; what he had done to Quinn, to Maxson, and everyone else he had ever been close to. It had to end now. And if she was ever to be free from suspicion—even if he despised the very thought of it— _she_ had to do it. He pulled her hands from his arms and firmly forced her away, holding her back as she tried to move towards him. “I’m not blind to the fact that we’re...that we’re close, and this must be very difficult for you. I wish Maxson had sent someone else.”

_God, I wish he had sent someone else._

“But that doesn’t change a thing. I’m a synth, which means I need to be destroyed. If you disobey your orders, you’re not only betraying Maxson, you’re betraying the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Are you fucking _insane?”_ Quinn said, her eyes wide as she gaped at him. She tried to wriggle free, but Danse held on.

“Synths _can’t be trusted.”_ If there was ever a time that she had to understand this point, it was _now._ “Machines were never meant to make their own decisions—"

“Danse, no—"

“They need to be controlled,” he said loudly, speaking over her. “Technology that’s run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees, and humanity to the brink of extinction. I need to be the example, not the exception.”

She stared at him for a moment, looking like she was about to cry. Then she scowled.

“That’s such _bullshit!”_ Quinn hissed, her eyes dancing with fire as she finally wrenched herself free. “I’ve been around you long enough to know you’re not just a machine! You feel towards other people. You have human emotions! Empathy! Sympathy! _Grief!”_

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’ve made my decision—"

“Yeah, well your decision is full of shit! You’re making it because you're scared and you feel trapped and you see it as the only dignified way out!”

Danse flinched for a moment, unable to reply. Her words had hit far too close to home for his liking.

The long silence added to his discomfort. He cleared his throat, glaring. “You know how I feel about synths.”

“And I know how you feel about me,” she shot back. “And I know that you aren’t the kind of _man_ to make me put you down unless you were beyond saving. And you’re not, Danse, because you don’t _need_ saving. This isn’t like Cutler; you’re still the same person.”

“We both know it’s the right thing to do,” Danse replied. Even to himself, it sounded weak, but his belief in its message remained the same.

“No, it isn’t!”

“For God’s sake!” His temper had reached its breaking point. This was hard enough already without her adding to it. “If you refuse to follow Maxson’s orders, you’re undermining everything the Brotherhood stands for! I can’t allow that to happen on my account!”

_“I won’t do it.”_

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“Refusing to murder you is being difficult?”

“I’m a _synth.”_   Couldn’t she see this was the only way forward? “And you’d be risking your life just to keep me alive. Why would you do that?”

_“Do you want a fucking list?”_ She folded her arms, fury and determination etched into every line on her face. Her eyes blazed with the kind of conviction he’d only ever seen when she’d refused to fight her son, and he knew at once it was a wrath that could not be tamed. “You’re proof that Maxson is full of shit.”

Danse blinked. “How? I’ve betrayed—"

“You haven’t betrayed anyone,” Quinn interrupted. “Everything you’ve done, you’ve done for the good of other people. Not just for the Brotherhood, but for humanity, or whatever else you want to call it.”

He shook his head. “I allowed far too many people to die under my command.”

“But you’ve _saved_ just as many. You saved Carson and Kapraski—they would have died without you. And how many people have lived longer, better lives thanks to the purifier you helped bring to D.C.? People have died under your command, yes, but you made sure they were put out of their misery instead of suffering through agony until the end. You’ve always done the right thing for everyone but yourself.”

“But...but the Institute…”

“What about them?” She stepped closer now, hesitating before reaching out and placing her hands on his shoulders. “You led Maxson to the Institute after you scouted ahead in the Commonwealth. You helped me get _into_ the Institute, providing the Brotherhood with near limitless access to their facility. You got the actuators _and_ the nukes for Liberty Prime, and not _once_ has the Institute got wind of any of this. You are _not_ on their side, Danse. You’re Brotherhood, through and through.”

“Brotherhood, through and through...” he repeated, his body going numb. Whether Quinn knew it or not, she was echoing Marguerie. He wanted to reach up to her hands and touch her, but something stopped him. She believed in him, and that was enough. But he was still a machine and there were now places with her he could no longer go.

Danse thought of Cutler and the way he had fought with everything he’d had to find him, to _save_ him. Krieg, and how much the old paladin had thought of him. Would they have been on his side now?

And then there was Dawes. Worwick. Brach. God, he had tried so hard to keep them safe.

And Haylen, who had risked it all just to give him a chance at survival.

He swallowed, his throat feeling painfully tight. Then there were people who would never forgive him, Maxson and Marguerie at the forefront of his mind. The Coopers, too. And the other officers whom he had occasionally conversed with. To them, he was the enemy, a figure of deceit and betrayal, a cautionary tale for all the squires to hear.

Paladin Danse, the _traitor._

The easy solution was right in front of him. No matter how Quinn tried to dress up his worth, the route with the least amount of pain ended with the barrel of a gun. And yet Danse had never settled for something because it was easy; he always pushed on because it was hard.

Fighting on would be the most difficult decision of his life. But to fight meant to accept that he wasn’t disloyal, and in his heart, Danse knew this was true. He had done everything, given _everything_ for the Brotherhood. He had worked his damndest to do good in the world. With that, he could not argue.

“You’re...you’re right.” Even saying the words felt like glass in his mouth, but he forced himself to continue. “I’m not technology that’s gone out of control. I’ve been a benefit to mankind, not its downfall.”

Quinn nodded, her fingers squeezing on his shoulders as relief filled her face. “So what are we going to do?”

“We?”

“If you think I’m going to just abandon you, then you can think again.”

He felt a mix of exasperation and gratitude flood through him. Even now, when his life lay in ruins and he had nothing to offer her but danger, she was standing by his side.

The idea of turning his back on it all terrified Danse. Starting again, moving on, leaving everything he had ever loved behind.

His eyes met Quinn’s and some of the tension slipped away.

_Well, not everything._

Biting back the urge to pull her close, Danse rubbed his forehead. “My next move…”

“We still have the Brotherhood to deal with.”

“I know.” His hand dropped back to his side. “I might have a solution. The only clear choice is for me to leave the Commonwealth. The sooner I make for the border, the sooner I put this behind me.”

Danse paused. He hated the idea of running again, but what else could he do? Quinn was at risk if Maxson found out she’d let him live. He pulled at the chain around his neck, tugging it free from his uniform with a surprisingly steady hand and looping it over his head. “Take my holotags. Use them to prove to Maxson that your mission was a success or he’ll just send someone else to hunt me down.”

Quinn took them, letting the tags flow through her fingers for a moment before clenching them in her fist. She nodded and pocketed them, looking worried.

“I’ll deliver them to Maxson,” Quinn said, “but wait for me at Sanctuary. We’ll leave the Commonwealth together. And if you _don’t_ wait for me, you can be damn sure I won't stop until I find you again.”

He blinked at her. “Why would you—?”

“Remember what I said at the Sentinel Site? Whatever happens, I’ll be with you every step of the way.” She shrugged. “This is a little bit bigger than a conversation with Cade, but the sentiment hasn’t changed. You’re stuck with me.”

Danse hesitated before asking his next question. “The Institute...your son. I thought you wanted to stop them...stop him.”

“I do,” Quinn replied, “but Ingram’s got her damn robot working. They can get the rest of the pieces themselves to get it at full capacity. They don’t _need_ me anymore to break into the Institute. But you need friends more than ever. So I’m staying by your side.”

For a brief moment, Danse dared to hope that she still felt the same way as before. Then he quashed the feeling. He was a machine. She was human. Quinn may still care for him the way she cared for the detective, but that was as far as it would go. Trying to pretend otherwise was stupid, and Quinn deserved better.

Danse forced a smile. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

* * *

He should have known it was too easy. Too good to be true, some might have said. There was nothing _good_ about Danse’s situation, with the exception of the woman at his side, determined to keep him living, even if every piece of his being was tired of the whole sordid affair.

The elevator ride back up to the surface seemed to go on for hours, when in reality it would have been a minute at best. Danse’s thoughts were chaotic, swinging from wanting to try to wishing Quinn would just let him go.

And yet even though he felt run into the ground, battered and defeated, there was a sliver of hope that had not been there before. Quinn didn’t think he was a liar. She still wanted him around, and that meant more than he could ever say.

But as the elevator doors opened and Danse walked through the bunker and out into the cool, fresh air, he saw a figure silhouetted in the late afternoon sunlight. And when he spoke, Danse knew it was all over.

Maxson was waiting for them.

“How dare you betray the Brotherhood!”

The Elder’s voice was a whip cracking down on Danse; he flinched, fear streaking through him. Why was Maxson here? Danse cast a glance at Quinn as she joined his side. Whatever the case, he could not let her be blamed for this.

“It’s not her fault,” he said quickly. “It’s mine.”

“I’ll deal with you in a moment,” Maxson snapped before rounding on Quinn. “Knight! Why has this...this _thing_ not been destroyed?”

“He’s not a _thing,_ you colossal pr—" Quinn snarled, but Danse cut across her.

_“Knight!”_

She turned to him, eyes wide in disbelief, and Danse glared back at her. Regardless of his current situation, he would still not allow such blatant disrespect towards the Elder in his presence.

Maxson held a similar shocked expression, apparently lost for words at Danse’s reprimand. The Elder stared at him for a moment, before remembering himself. His scowl deepened.

_“‘He?’”_ The disgust in Maxson’s tone was clear, and he talked as if Danse wasn’t there at all. “Danse isn’t a man. It’s a machine...an automaton created by the Institute. _It_ wasn’t born from the womb of a loving mother. _It_ was grown within the cold confines of a laboratory.”

“Can’t you hear yourself?” Quinn took a step forward, and Danse grabbed her arm as she pointed at Maxson with her free hand. He could feel her trembling with rage, her arm taut as she pulled against him. “Born from a loving mother? How many wastelanders are born out here and discarded by their parents? How many are sold into slavery or turned over to raiders? How many of your own _‘human’_ soldiers share a story of a thankless upbringing? Because if I remember my lessons on the Prydwen correctly, you were sent to the Citadel, thousands of miles away from home, to be raised as a child soldier—"

“How dare y—"

_“I wouldn’t have done that to my son,”_ she said over the Elder’s outrage. “My parents wouldn’t have done that either. Does that make you less human than me?”

With a grunt of effort, Danse dragged Quinn back. He couldn’t tell her off again, not when he agreed with every word she had said. He hadn’t liked it when Lyons had made Maxson into a soldier, and he hadn’t liked it when Maxson had done the same to the squires aboard the Prydwen.

Still, there was a time and a place for such an accusation, and Maxson looked as if he was about to explode. Danse tensed, waiting for an attack.

It never came. The Elder stood on the spot, his mouth thin with rage as his eyes flicked between Quinn and Danse. But there was hurt in them too. Danse had known the man long enough to sense when a nerve had been struck. Instead, Maxson took a deep breath and the pain disappeared, a coldness taking its place.

“Flesh is flesh,” he said from between gritted teeth. “Machine is machine. The two were never meant to intertwine. By attempting to play God, the Institute has taken the sanctity of human life and corrupted it beyond measure.”

There was a small part of Danse that concurred. His existence was a pollution of humanity—the very knowledge of what he was made his skin crawl. And yet Quinn’s words echoed in his head.

_“Brotherhood, through and through.”_

Something new rose up within Danse, anger like he had never felt before—deep and indignant. He let go of Quinn.

“All I’ve done for the Brotherhood, all the blood I’ve spilt in our name...how can you _say_ that about me?”

To anyone else, Maxson might have seemed indifferent to his outburst, but Danse could tell he was surprised. Had he ever challenged the Elder so openly?

“You’re the physical embodiment of what we hate most,” Maxson said, his features twisting into an ugly grimace. “Technology _that’s gone too far.”_ He gestured wildly to the barren landscape behind him. ”Look around you, Danse! Look at the scorched earth and the bones that litter the wasteland! Millions—perhaps even _billions_ —died because science outpaced man’s _restraint._ They called it a new frontier and pushing the envelope, _completely disregarding the repercussions._ Can’t you see the same thing is happening again?”

Quinn opened her mouth, but Danse held up his hand and stopped her. Whatever Maxson was clinging to, he needed to hear it. Each passing moment, each utterance of Brotherhood ideology that they both knew so well was enough to confirm it to Danse: Maxson despised him, but he also wanted him to _understand._

_He’s trapped by his position. He believes what he is saying, but he wants me to believe it too. He wants me to know why this is happening._

“You’re a single bomb in an arsenal of thousands preparing to lay waste to what’s left of mankind,” Maxson continued.

Quinn finally lost her patience. “And yet _you’re_ the one building a giant robot with enough of a payload to wipe the Commonwealth off the map. You keep saying humanity didn’t keep itself in check. Well how can we trust that _you_ won’t take technology too far?”

“What—?”

“Danse wants to _save_ mankind, not destroy it. The same as you.”

The Elder gave her an incredulous look. “You’re as delusional as you are insubordinate. How can you trust the word of a machine that thinks it’s alive?”

“Because I’ve lived through the damn apocalypse that destroyed the world. I saw what technology could do first hand. I walked amongst people that allowed things to spiral out of control, and let me tell you, Danse is the opposite of that.” Quinn shook her head. “I didn’t trust the Brotherhood until I worked with him. _He_ showed me what the best of the Brotherhood can be. And whether you like it or not, he _is_ your best.”

“It’s a _machine,”_ Maxson tried again. “A machine that’s had its mind erased, its very _thoughts_ programmed. Those ethics that it’s striving to champion aren’t even its own! They were artificially inserted in an attempt to have it blend into society!”

“And yet you’ve benefitted from those ethics all the same!” Quinn spat back. “His honesty. His professionalism. His dedication to the Brotherhood. His brothers and sisters look up to him! _I_ look up to him, and with damn good reason!”

Danse placed a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. He had listened, watching as she had fought his corner with all the fire he had come to love and expect from her. Whatever happened now, it was enough that she would defend him to such an extent. That she thought so highly of him, even after she had learnt what he was.

He knew, though, that if Quinn carried on, she was at great risk of facing Maxson’s wrath. How the Elder had not simply turned on them both by now was beyond Danse’s understanding, but he wasn’t going to let Quinn push him any further.

“It’s true.”  With a firm, but gentle, hand, Danse moved Quinn aside and stepped forward. “I was built within the confines of a laboratory, and some of my memories aren’t my own. But when I saw my brothers dying at my feet, I felt sorrow.”

He paused, the old faces drifting to the forefront of his mind. But instead of filling Danse with dread, they gave him a bitter strength to carry on.

“When I defeated an enemy of the Brotherhood, I felt pride. And when I heard your speech about saving the Commonwealth...I felt hope.” Danse scowled. “Don’t you understand? _I thought I was human, Arthur.”_

Maxson flinched at the sound of his own name, and all at once, the last decade seemed to melt away.

_“You look sad...why are you sad?”_

There was no Elder anymore, only the boy from those lonely corridors, staring at him with wounded eyes.

“From the moment I was taken in by the Brotherhood, I’ve done absolutely nothing to betray your trust, and I never will.”

And then without warning, Danse saw the reluctant realisation dawn on his old friend’s face. Arthur _believed_ him.

But he hadn’t changed his mind.

“It’s too late for that now,” Maxson snapped, though his voice sounded strained. “The Institute has foolishly chosen to grant you life. You simply should not exist. I don’t intend to debate this any longer. My orders _stand.”_

Danse sighed as the suffocating calm returned. Once again, the easy option was being forced upon him, and once again, he was tempted to let it happen. He turned to Quinn, tired and empty, and smiled at her. “It’s alright. We did our best.”

“It’s not alright!” she said, looking horrified. “You can’t—"

“You convinced me that I was wrong to be ashamed of my true identity, and I thank you for it.” He was lying through his teeth and they both knew it, but if it helped her through the next painful steps, then this was one lie he was content in telling. “Whatever you decide, know that I’m going to my grave with no anger and no regrets.”

_“Touching,”_ sneered Maxson.

Quinn turned sharply to him, and from the side, Danse saw the ugly look on her face. She made an odd, jerky movement with her arm, as if she was about to raise her hand, before hesitating, the fury rolling off her in waves.

The Elder frowned, his eyes flicking to her arm, the certainty he had held in his expression faltering. When he spoke, though, his voice was still steady. “Either you execute Danse, or I will, Knight. The choice is yours.”

Her arm twitched again, her hand tightening into a fist, and for a moment, Danse thought she was going to hit him. Then she relaxed and shook her head.

“I delivered you a path into the Institute. I helped reactivate your war machine. Without me, you’d be no closer to stopping the Institute than when you first arrived in the Commonwealth. After everything I’ve done for you and for the Brotherhood, _you need to listen to me._ You owe me that much.”

Maxson seemed to fight with himself for a second, before eventually forcing out, “Very well. I’m listening.”

“Whatever circumstances have caused this situation to arise, Danse has stayed loyal to you.” She gestured to him with a wave of her hand. “Look at him! He still _here._ He believes in the Brotherhood, even if it means his death. How many people would allow themselves to be executed for a set of ideals that goes against their very nature?”

She took a step closer, shrugging away Danse as he tried to pull her back.

“He had no idea what he was, and if he had, he would have told you. And I think you know this. You can keep trying to save face by claiming he betrayed you, but you _know_ that he gave everything to your cause. And you _know_ he’s willing to give his life at your request. Those aren’t the actions of a traitor.”

 Maxson was frozen in place, his eyes locked on Quinn.

“I believe in him,” she went on, turning to Danse and giving him a soft smile, before glancing back at Maxson. _“I believe in him._ And so should you. Because you were friends, and because right now, this revelation is still raw. You could kill him and consider it a job well done. But in a few years, when you’re older and wiser and you’ve had the time to truly _learn_ how the world works, you’ll realise the enormity of your actions, and they will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

There was a long, terrible silence. Danse could see Maxson’s mind working to process the situation, to sift through the conflict of duty and feeling. He had been bred for war, to put the Brotherhood first, the same as him. The way they had all been taught.

Danse flicked his attention between the two of them. The woman, pleading for his life. The man, teetering on the brink of a monumental decision: the decision to _rebel._

His eyes met Danse’s, and finally, there was sorrow. Then it was gone, and Maxson shifted his icy gaze back to Quinn.

“You’re a stubborn woman,” he said, shaking his head as he glared at her.

_Tell me about it,_ thought Danse. But as he watched the Elder, he saw a glint of respect under all the frustration.

“So.” Maxson folded his arms, still scowling. “It appears we’ve arrived at an impasse. Allowing Danse to live undermines everything the Brotherhood stands for, yet you insist that he remains alive. Which leaves me with only a single alternative.”

Quinn drew in a sharp breath.

“Danse.”

Danse felt his body snap to attention.

Maxson paused. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead. You were pursued and slain by this Brotherhood Knight and your remains were _incinerated.”_

His voice sounded...odd. The anger was clear, but also forced, as if Maxson was trying to convince himself that he _should_ be furious with the corner he had found himself in. Danse waited to see what other judgement would befall him.

“From this day forward, you are forbidden to set foot on the Prydwen, or speak to anyone from the Brotherhood of Steel. Should you choose to ignore me, know that you’ll be fired upon immediately. _Do we understand each other?”_

Danse nodded, his body numb. Was this really happening? “I do.” Then, feeling as though he should at least try to sound grateful, he twisted his lips into a smile and added, “Thank you for believing in me, Arthur.”

“Don’t mistake my mercy for acceptance,” Maxson replied sharply. “The _only_ reason you’re still alive is because of _her.”_ He nodded towards Quinn, his expression relaxing considerably.  
  
For the briefest of moments, Danse thought he saw relief in the Elder's face. But then it was gone, and he was almost certain he had imagined it.  
  
When Maxson spoke again, his tone was hard and laboured.

“I’m returning to the Prydwen, Knight. Take some time, say your goodbyes…” He hesitated, his eyes flicking towards Danse, before hastily looking away back to Quinn. “And then I expect to see you there. We still have the Institute to deal with.”

Maxson turned on his heel and left, storming off towards a stationary vertibird that Danse had not noticed before. Maxson climbed into the pilot's seat without so much as a backward glance.

Danse watched him go, the numbness spreading within him, knowing he would never see his friend again. Never see the Prydwen again. He was alone.

Only when the aircraft had disappeared over the trees and the sound of its rotary blades had died away, did Danse direct his attention to Quinn. She was looking at him, a mixture of relief and something else—something deeper that he couldn’t place—written all over her expression.

_Why do you care so much about me?_

Confused thoughts raced around his head. Disapproval that Maxson had gone against the teachings of the Brotherhood, but also understanding that it would have been _wrong_ to kill him. He was a synth, but he was loyal. And yet…

Danse stopped the conflict in its tracks. What good would be gained from wallowing? He was alive, whether he wanted to be or not. Quinn had fought hard for this outcome, risking herself for him. He had no right question whether he deserved the chance he had been given.

“It took a hell of a lot of guts to stand up to Maxson like that,” Danse said, studying her face instead. The familiarity of every line and scar he had come to know so well calmed him, and he found himself wishing things could have turned out differently between them.

“Did you expect anything less?” Quinn said, grinning.

Danse laughed, the noise sounding strange in the midst of all his troubles. “No, not really.”

“So what happens now?”

“I’m going to stay.” He glanced at the bunker and sighed. It was a depressing sight. “I didn’t plan on spending the rest of my days in this old listening post, but it will have to do.”

Quinn frowned. “We can still leave.”

He shook his head. “No. I think there’s a place for you in the Brotherhood, and a lot good you can achieve in my stead.” He swallowed, his throat tight.

_Banished._

Quinn was not about to let the subject drop. “But why stay _here?_ Come back with me to Sanctuary. We can make a home for you there.”

The very thought of it filled Danse with dread. To march into that settlement in front of all her friends, all the Minutemen he had worked with...it wouldn’t take long for the news of his exile to spread. The disgraced paladin, sent away in shame for being the very thing he hated so much.

_Synth._

“No,” Danse replied, working to keep the tremor out of his voice. “No, not right now. I need to...I need to collect my thoughts. Besides, it’s a trek to Sanctuary. I should keep my head down for a few days at least until the news gets out that I’m dead.”

Quinn nodded, though she looked unconvinced.

“Now, you better get back to the Prydwen. In the meantime, I’ll start making this bunker more liveable.” He smiled at her. “If you ever need me, I’ll be right here.”

_“Excuse me?”_

Danse frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“Is there a _problem?”_ Quinn shook her head in disbelief. “After everything you’ve just been through, you want me to just waltz back to the Prydwen and leave you in this crappy little bunker to deal with all this shit _by yourself?”_

“I...well…” He hadn’t considered it like that. He was used to shouldering his burdens alone. “Quinn, Elder Maxson said—"

“I don’t give a damn what he said.” She put her hands on her hips, her mouth a thin line of agitation. “Here’s what _I’m_ saying: you need someone right now. And that someone is gonna be me. I’m not going anywhere. So you get your ass in that bunker while I scout around and make sure Maxson hasn’t left someone behind to finish the job.”

“And then what?”

Quinn shrugged. “We talk about what’s happened. Or we sit in silence, if that’s what you want. Or you sleep. You look like shit. Whatever you need. Just let me help you. _Please.”_

Danse knew there was no point arguing with her. Though Maxson was a man of his word, he still felt on edge at what other dangers could be lurking in the wasteland. “Don’t stay out too long. I don’t think I could...I...stay safe.”

She nodded, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. “I will. I promise.”

Revulsion coursed through Danse at her touch, and he pulled away, heading back inside the bunker, walking past her empty power armour. He still had feelings for her. A machine had _feelings_ for a human.

Sickened at himself, he averted his eyes from his last glimpse of her as the elevator door closed. He had Quinn’s friendship, though even that was barely deserved.

Anything more was asking too much.

* * *

Quinn watched Danse stalk back inside, anxiety spiking through her chest like a knife. She waited until he had stepped in the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a resounding clunk, before whirring away as it whisked him below the earth.

Her eyes scanned the dead vegetation that surrounded her, and she smiled, despite herself. Her contingency plan was nowhere in sight.

_Damn, you’re good at this._

Putting her fingers into her mouth, she gave a loud, shrill whistle. There was a distant rustling noise and MacCready’s head popped out from a bush. She waved to him, and he stood up fully, strolling over to her, sniper rifle in hand.

“That’s two hand signals you almost gave me, boss.” He grinned, showing his blackened teeth. “Lose your nerve?”

Quinn glanced back at the spot where Maxson’s vertibird had been. The young Elder had no idea how close to death he had been.

She sighed. “Something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness. Real life for my beta caused interference.
> 
> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> I was tempted to stick close to the canon scene of Blind Betrayal, but y’know what? Fuck that noise. Bethesda completely dropped the ball with it. One speech check for Danse to convince him to go from self-loathing to ‘well I guess I should live because reasons’ and that’s that?
> 
> No. Nononono.
> 
> This was one of the main reasons why I started this fic. And also the conclusion (or total lack of) to Danse’s story.
> 
> So if you like BNC, be thankful that Bethesda fucked up, because otherwise I might not have been mad enough to start this story at all.
> 
> That aside, I’m glad the response has been good for chapter 37, especially over the grief/suicide aspects of it all. A lot of it is heavily based in my own personal experiences with depression and suicide, so it’s 'nice' to see that carried over well into the text.
> 
> Finally, there seems to be a misconception with the suicide note from last chapter. It is completely canon. If you fail to reach Danse in time or leave the bunker at any point without convincing him to live, when you next go back, Danse is dead and that exact holotape--word for word-- is next to his body.
> 
> :(


	39. Debt

_"How could you set me up like that?”_

Quinn winced at MacCready’s tone, feeling a twinge of guilt at his outrage. The news of who he’d had his sights on for the last half an hour had not gone down well.

“The leader of the Brotherhood! What the hel—I mean—what the _heck,_ Quinn?” He shook his head, his face screwed up in anger. “Do you even _realise_ what kind of trouble that would have brought to my door?”

“Why do you think I bottled it?” Quinn said sharply, rubbing her forehead. Too much was going on right now without MacCready getting on her back. “I didn’t want to bring a world of shit on your head.”

MacCready glared at her, his arms folded tight across his chest, but Quinn wasn’t going to back down.

“You knew the plan,” she continued, her scowl as deep as his. “You know damn well that killing was only a last resort, if it looked like things were going to get nasty. But I didn’t know Maxson himself was going to show up. How could I? I thought he’d send some nameless grunts, maybe an officer at best, and you would just scare them off if they got too close to the bunker.”

MacCready considered this for a moment and then nodded, though he still looked pissed. “Alright. Fine. But mind telling me what’s going on to cause the leader of the world’s biggest group of ass—ugh—I mean, _morons_ to come directly after you?”

She gave him the short version, emphasising Danse’s innocence and Maxson’s idiocy. MacCready had made his distaste for synths perfectly clear to her before, but she didn’t think he was quite on the same level as the Brotherhood in his mistrust.

MacCready’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, all of this just for a synth? I thought you were against the Institute, not protecting its weird robot spies.”

“No, I did all of this to protect my _friend,”_ Quinn retorted, her hands on her hips. “The same way I’d protect Nick, too.”

He shrugged. She had noticed the odd animosity between Valentine and MacCready, and wondered once again if it existed purely because Nick was a synth. MacCready fiddled with his rifle and then gave a little smirk. “Funny, though, huh? The Brotherhood have always had a tato up their as—I mean—they’ve always been relentless about synths. Tickles me that one of their own turned out to be just that.” He sniggered, grinning at her.

Quinn did not laugh.

“What?” MacCready said, his brow furrowing as she glared at him.

“It’s not _‘funny.’_ Danse didn’t know.”

“So?”

_“So,”_ Quinn snapped, feeling her irritation mount, “his entire world has been turned upside down. He’s been nearly executed by the people he thought were his friends, exiled from the one place that gave him meaning, and found out he’s something he _despises.”_ She shook her head. “When I went after him, I didn’t know what I would find. I half expected that he would...that…”

The image of the gun in Danse’s hand sprung to mind, and Quinn shivered, nausea washing through her. What would have happened if she had been delayed? She dreaded to think about it. She was only glad she had her rifle _and_ his pistol here with her now.

“Hey, I didn’t…” MacCready said, looking uncomfortable as he shifted on the spot. “Sorry, Quinn. Really. I don’t get all this synth stuff, and I can’t say I trust them, but...sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She sighed. “Look, just...please. If our friendship means anything to you, you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Maxson agreed to tell everyone Danse is dead, but if the rest of the Brotherhood find out the truth, he’ll be hunted down until they finish the job. And so will I.”

MacCready paled a little, but he nodded. “I got it. My lips are sealed.”

Quinn smiled. “Thanks. And if it means anything, whatever you think you owe me, you’ve paid me back in full.”

“Nah,” he replied, grinning again. “This isn’t paying back a debt. This is just what friends do, right?”

“In that case,” Quinn said sweetly, “you don’t owe me anything for helping you with Duncan. Because that’s just what friends do, right?”

MacCready blinked.

“Hey, no!” he said, puffing himself up like an angry pigeon. “That’s not fair!”

“Your words!”

“Quinn!”

“Too late. No takebacks.”

“I—you—but —"

His protests were cut off as Quinn stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. MacCready paused, his rifle digging into her chest, and then leaned into her, patting her on the back with his free hand. When they broke apart, he was scowling.

_“Fine,”_ he huffed. The annoyance slipped away as he smiled. “Synth business aside, this Danse guy...you really looked out for him today. Makes me feel a lot better, y’know? Like you always have your friends’ backs...including mine.”

Quinn nodded. “Damn straight I do.” She raised an eyebrow. “Besides, it pays to have a cocky little shit like you around, especially with the way you shoot.”

MacCready laughed. “You know it.” He shouldered his rifle and glanced over the hills in the direction where the Prydwen was stationed. “I promised that Rachel woman I’d take her along to kill some Gunners, so I should get back before she realises I’m missing.”

“She’s confined to the Prydwen until Maxson returns, I think. So yeah, you better scoot.” Quinn punched him lightly in the arm. “Look after her for me.”

“Look after _her?_ Have you seen the size of her? She’d make a deathclaw have second thoughts.”

“I know, but…” Quinn shook her head. “She was friends with Danse, but as soon as she realised he was a synth...Rachel’s had a really bad shock. Just make sure she doesn’t bite off more than she can chew, okay?”

_“What am I getting myself into?”_ MacCready muttered, but then he sighed and nodded. “I will, I promise.”

They parted without fuss, MacCready tipping his hat and setting off up the hill, Quinn giving a little wave before walking inside the bunker. She frowned at her power armour, which she had abandoned when she had first arrived, not wanting to startle Danse by wearing it. It could stay there for all she cared, but Danse would probably disapprove if Quinn left it out where a passing raider could steal it.

The usual claustrophobic sensation returned as she clambered inside, and Quinn stomped over to the lift, the elevator buttons causing her some difficulty.

_Where’s a pencil when you need it?_ she thought dully.

* * *

The days dragged on.

Between the two of them, Quinn and Danse managed to make the bunker less of an inhabitable shithole and more of a safe house. They scavenged nearby buildings, dragging back workbenches and furniture, and clearing away the rubble and broken security robots Quinn had destroyed. The only time she saw him break into a smile was when they found a slightly bent power armour station discarded in a dumpster.

_“Nothing a bit of work can’t fix,”_ he’d said cheerfully. Quinn decided not to mention he had no power armour to go with it.

She had tried to talk with Danse a little, but it seemed like he didn’t have much to say. Whatever thoughts he had on his new identity, he wasn’t ready to share them, and Quinn didn’t blame him.

_A synth._

Now that the worst of the storm had passed, Quinn had time to reflect on what this really meant. Either Danse was a replacement or he was an original. The only thing she truly believed was that he was not a spy, otherwise the Institute would have delivered its retribution a long time ago.

She stretched her legs and stood up, feeling too restless to settle in the eerily silent bunker. Something else bothered her, something that she could not push away no matter how hard she tried. Her final meeting with Deacon kept surfacing in her mind: the disappointment in his face, the irritating air of ‘knowing’ that he held without bothering to share the details.

_“By the time they do something you find bad, it might be too late to leave.”_

_“I doubt it. What could they possibly take from me?”_

_“More than you could ever imagine.”_

More than she could ever imagine…. Quinn would certainly have never guessed that Danse was a synth. Had Deacon known? Had he been hinting to her, teasing her with that terrible information?

Quinn suspected there was more than one branch of the Railroad than Deacon’s cell. The operation seemed too complex, too _big_ for the small collection of people hiding in the ratways beneath the city. So Deacon could be ignorant of Danse’s identity after all.

She rubbed her forehead. There were no answers right now, and the only way to get them would be to seek Deacon out. But that would mean either leaving Danse alone or taking him with her into the Railroad’s headquarters, neither of which was a winning option.

Sighing, Quinn stared at Danse, who was fast asleep in the corner. He had been sleeping a lot lately. In any other situation, she would have welcomed the change, but given the circumstances…

He had woken every single night, without fail, shaking and sweating, his skin pale as he wheezed and pushed Quinn away when she tried to help. Then he would roll over and shut his eyes again, still trembling until he eventually drifted back to sleep.

Worry gnawed away within her as she began to pace about the room, taking care to keep her footsteps quiet. Even if Danse was sleeping for the wrong reasons, Quinn didn’t want to wake him.

This wasn’t like him. Normally he would talk with her, let her know what he was thinking, even if it troubled him greatly. Normally he would stay awake after one of his nightmares. Now he was shutting her out and hiding away, preferring to subject himself to his dreams multiple times a night than hold a conversation with her.

She was here for him. That wouldn’t change. But Quinn didn’t know what to _do._

As she took another tour of the room, a small rectangular object caught her eye, lying on top of a console next to the back wall. Quinn crept over and picked it up, turning it over in her hands. The yellowed label had been recently scrubbed away, leaving only tattered remnants on the plastic casing. This was...unusual. Holotapes were normally marked in some shape or form.

Quinn liked holotapes. She collected them, valuing the pre-war ones over the others. It felt like home reaching out to her, even if all a tape contained was the garbled last words of a panicking civilian. She had a few of those stashed away in Nick’s office, alongside her books. But her favourites were the diaries: an odd way to record thoughts, and yet apparently more people had done it than Quinn had ever realised.

What was this tape?

Quinn pocketed it. Playing it now could wake Danse, and there would be plenty of time to listen later. Instead, she made her way over to the power armour frame, moving it so that it rattled on the spot. She noted the serial number _‘35’_ engraved into the side and sighed. The base was uneven and would need to be straightened out before…

_35._

An idea occurred to her.

She walked back over to Danse and crouched down, shaking his shoulder. This was worth disturbing his rest.

“Intruders?” he mumbled, his hand twitching towards his gun as he jolted from his sleep. When Quinn shook her head, he frowned. “What then?”

Quinn cocked her head to the side and smiled.

“How would you like to go find a new set of power armour?”

* * *

“Shit!”

Quinn’s arms flailed as the scrap beneath her feet shifted, sending her skidding down the pile. She staggered as she hit solid ground, tripped over her own feet, and landed in a heap on the floor.

Spitting out a mouthful of dirt, Quinn looked up to see Danse neatly pick his way down the dunes of rubble and rusted metal, before strolling over and helping her up. He looked almost unrecognisable, having replaced his Brotherhood jumpsuit with scavenged clothes, a makeshift hood and cowl covering his head and face.

“I’m not convinced that your source of information is reliable, Quinn,” Danse said, his voice muffled as he brushed mud and dust off her.

Quinn rolled her eyes. “You just don’t like it because—"

“That ghoul has probably never gone an entire day sober in his life.” Even though all Quinn could see was a glimpse of his eyes beneath the swathes of fabric, she could tell he was glaring. “So no, I don’t like his information.”

“Well, see it as an opportunity to get away from the bunker for a bit then.”

Danse didn’t reply, letting her take the lead as they set off again, but as they drew closer to their destination, she heard him mutter something that sounded like _‘junkie.’_

Gunfire sounded a staccato beat in the distance. Danse raised his laser pistol—the same one Haylen had given him—and crouched down behind a nearby wall. Quinn copied him, and together they peered towards the entrance of 35 Court, watching as a group of raiders threw themselves against the building’s robotic defences.

“Look,” Quinn said over the screams of the raiders in the background. “I know you and Hancock don’t get along, but his people said that it was a set of _X-01_ power armour. Isn’t that worth at least a try?”

“If it’s really there, then you can be certain there will be heavy resistance inside,” Danse replied. “Which is why you should have worn your _own_ armour for this mission.”

“You know I couldn’t,” Quinn shot back. The two of them wearing civilian clothes over basic armour and hoods that concealed their faces wouldn’t stand out too much. But if Quinn wore her Brotherhood armour to the party, it would attract the wrong kind of attention.

As if on cue, a vertibird flew over the city. Quinn flinched, tensing and staring up at it, her heart hammering against her ribcage. If she was seen with Danse...if he was recognised…

“They’re moving on,” Danse said gently. Odd that he was comforting her over their presence, rather than the other way around. “We’ll be fine.”

Still, Quinn insisted they waited long after the whir of the vertibird’s blades had faded from hearing.

By the time they’d moved on again, the security defences of 35 Court had been obliterated, scorch marks indicating where the turrets had once been, their last smoking fragments littering the ground. Raiders were bleeding out around the entrance, twitching and groaning, unaware that they had company. Danse walked over, shooting each of them in the head, and turned to Quinn.

“Less for us to deal with inside.”

Quinn nodded, feeling a little unsettled. Even though she’d had countless months to get used to the brutality of the wasteland, sometimes she forgot how cruel it could be. She was capable of killing—had proven time and time again that she had earned her place through blood—and yet the barrier between her and the denizens of the Commonwealth still existed.

They could be so _cold._

Glass and splintered concrete crunched beneath Quinn’s boots as she followed Danse into the building, her rifle raised and ready. The lobby was filled with a surprisingly warm glow, fires burning in makeshift braziers throughout the room. Quinn glanced around, but there was no one inside, save a single deactivated protectron, sealed away in a glass and metal case.

“Guess the turrets finished them all off,” she muttered, moving around the welcome desk by the stairs to investigate a door behind it. A shrill beeping noise sounded from around her ankles, and she glanced down just in time to see a red laser line flicker and disappear.

_Shit._

“Tripwire!” Quinn yelled, as the protectron case in front of her slid open with a loud clunk. Before she could shoot, the robot opened fire, its laser striking her in the shoulder. Quinn cried out as she staggered back into the desk with a bang, dropping her weapon. She shielded her face just in time; the second shot sent pain shooting up through her arms, her sleeves burning away as her skin seared.

Quinn waited for the third.

Something warm rushed past her and the smell of singed steel and plastic filled her nose. She opened her eyes to see an onslaught of laser fire, barrelling the protectron back into its case. As it tried to raise its arms up to attack again, they fell off, the metal joints melted and cracked. The gunfire stopped, and for a moment, Quinn thought it was over. Then the robot began to shake.

A pair of rough hands grabbed her under her arms and dragged her over the desk. Danse picked her up with ease and pressed her to his chest as he sprinted away. He reached the far wall and ducked behind a protruding section of the room, crouching down so that Quinn was shielded by his body.

The protectron exploded with a deafening bang followed by a series of loud thuds, and Quinn felt Danse jerk and grunt, his grip tightening for a second before he slumped forward against the wall.

“Danse?” Quinn tried to sit up, but he kept a firm hold on her, shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “Piece of debris caught me. That’s all.”

Relaxing, he carefully put Quinn down, making sure not to touch her arms as he propped her up against the wall. Danse pulled down his hood and cowl, revealing a stony expression as he batted at her smouldering clothes. Then his face filled with concentration as he turned his attention to her forearms and shoulder.

They hurt like hell. Quinn hissed as Danse removed her armour and jacket, the fabric sticking to her weeping, stinging skin. Her arms looked horrendous—a mottled mess of raw, seeping flesh. Even Quinn—with her basic medical knowledge—could tell these burns were bad ones.

Quinn watched as Danse pulled out the first aid kit from his rucksack. They had taken the kit from her power armour when they had left the bunker at Danse’s insistence.

_“Well, you can carry it then,”_ she had said, teasing him.

Once again, Danse had proven he knew best. Quinn tried to stay quiet as he cleaned her wounds, but the burning sensation was near unbearable. Her body began to shiver and sweat as a strange dizziness oozed into her head, and she felt herself start to slowly slide away from Danse. He caught her, gently pulling her upright again as she shook beneath his hands.

“What’s wrong with me?” she murmured, struggling to speak between her shallow, gasping breaths.

“You’re going into shock,” Danse replied, his voice matter-of-fact. “These injuries are relatively severe. But nothing that can’t be fixed with the right knowledge. Thankfully, the Brotherhood…”

His words trailed away, and there was a tense pause.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said finally. “I’ll talk you through the procedure while I patch you up. I need you to focus on my words and watch everything I do. Understood?”

Quinn nodded, observing as Danse opened their bag of medical supplies, pulling out alcohol rub, a med-x syringe, a stimpak, and a bottle that Quinn didn’t recognise. “What’s that stuff?”

“Hydra,” Danse said as he removed a small, sealed plastic tub. He cleaned his hands with the alcohol rub, and then removed the seal and prised the lid off the container. “It’s a chem from the west, made by a powerful tribe called the Legion some years ago. It was adopted by the NCR government not long after. Our...y-your brothers and sisters had run-ins with the NCR in the Mojave desert.”

He opened the med-x and stimpak, pouring them inside the tub and then putting the now empty med-x syringe between his teeth. The hydra opened with a loud popping noise, and Danse added it to the pot and began stirring it with the syringe.

“But they managed to get some over it over to the east coast, and occasionally it trickles through now and then,” Danse went on, still stirring. “Cade distributes it when he can get his hands on it, because with the right ingredients, it makes an excellent salve for laser burns.”

The concoction slowly turned into a thick, transparent gel, tinged with the palest hint of lilac.

“Hold up your arms,” he said gently, dipping his fingers into the gel. Quinn obeyed, and he spread the mixture all over her burns with a steady hand. A cool numbing sensation spread throughout her arms and shoulder, and within minutes, Quinn was giggling, feeling deliciously hazy.

“It will make you a little bit...high,” he said, and even though his tone remained serious, she could see he was smiling. “This is good, though. It means the damage isn’t so great that the medicine can’t cut through the pain. Keep still while I bandage you.”

Once again, Quinn did as she was told, still sniggering away as he deftly dressed the wounds. By the time he had finished, the giggles had left her, though her head was still swimming.

Danse picked up her discarded jacket and spread it out on the floor, before guiding Quinn to lie down on top of it. “You need to rest while the gel does its work.” He removed his own recently scavenged coat and threw it over her, tucking the sides under her body and making sure her shoulders were covered.

Standing, he stretched out his back, and then glanced down to a sizeable piece of metal on the floor; Quinn suspected it had been the debris that had hit him earlier. Danse gave it a sharp kick, watching it bounce away, and then sat down next to her. He picked up his pistol and reloaded it, leaning against the wall as he frowned. “Hopefully nothing will be drawn over by the explosion.”

Quinn snuggled against the folds of Danse’s coat; he hadn’t worn it long enough for it to smell like him yet, but she still found comfort in it. It was soft, warm, and reassuringly heavy. Her head was still fuzzy, and without thinking, Quinn let her hand creep out from under her blanket. She touched his knee, and he jumped, recoiling from her.

Her arm fell to the ground with a thud, and she whimpered as the burning pain flared up again, cutting through the fog that clouded her brain.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, blinking rapidly. Now was not the right time for this. Danse had been through a lot, endured so much. To try anything, when he was at his most vulnerable—

Danse shifted his position, so that his leg just touched her head, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, far enough away that it could almost be considered an accident. He glanced down at her, chewing his lip with worry, and after a second she felt his palm gingerly graze across her back, before dropping away again.

Quinn smiled and brushed her hand against the fabric of his pants, gently scrunching the material between her fingers as she held on. This time he didn’t pull away.

Baby steps.

* * *

When Quinn awoke, she was alone. It took her a few minutes to realise this; she yawned and sat up, Danse’s coat slipping off her as she stretched her arms. They were stiff and ached awfully, but the fierce burning had gone. Danse clearly knew his stuff. She wondered when Cade had taught him that little trick.

Quinn rubbed her eyes and glanced around as the grogginess of sleep left her. Come to think of it, where was Danse?

Slowly she got to her feet, her joints clicking and creaking, and reached for her combat rifle, only to find it was missing. She glanced around the floor, frowning.

_I dropped it when the protectron attacked._

Quinn picked her way across the room, stepping over charred pieces of robot and scorched carpet as she reached the welcome desk. Half of it had been blasted away, chipped wood strewn all over the floor. She crouched down, sifting through the mess.

Finally, she found it, and her heart sank. The metal had been completely melted in parts, fusing its components together into one big useless chunk of scrap. She turned it over in her hands, sighing. The rifle had been with her almost since the beginning, taken from the hands of a dead raider during the assault on Concord. It had been altered and broken and repaired a thousand times over, and yet Quinn had never let it go. Now it seemed she had no choice.

Quinn gave a nervous glance over her shoulder. Without a gun, she was as vulnerable as a child. Sure, she could use her ruined rifle as a club in a pinch, but...

_Where the hell is Danse?_

A series of suggestions flared up in her mind, each one more damning than the last. What if he was lying in some alleyway, bleeding? Dying? Or having some sort of flashback? What if—?

_What if the Brotherhood found him?_

Quinn’s stomach turned. But then the sensible part of her brain kicked in, and with a great effort, she stopped the thoughts dead. Danse was not stupid. He was not defenceless. He was not careless. If he had left, then he was nearby. If something had happened, she would have heard it.

Wherever Danse was, he would be back shortly. He wouldn’t leave her on her own for long, and stumbling around in the open injured and without a weapon would do more harm than good.

Quinn walked back to her bed and sat down, wrapping Danse’s coat around her and nuzzling into the fabric. Her nerves frayed as the anxiety bubbled away within her. Danse would be back soon and he would be fine. She just needed a distraction. She just needed to stay calm.

Her hand trembling slightly, Quinn pulled out the holotape she had taken from the bunker that morning. So long as she kept the volume down, it would help pass the time. A sense of calm returned to her as she scanned the plastic casing, looking for any hidden hint of its origins. Maybe it was pre-war after all? That was the only explanation she had for why the label had been so thoroughly peeled away.

She took Nate’s holotape out of her Pip-Boy with her usual care and inserted the new one, eager to hear its content.

_“As the minutes tick by and I stare at the walls of this godforsaken place, I'm still trying to cope with the reality that I am a living lie.”_

Quinn frowned. This was the last voice she had expected to hear.

Her confusion turned into horror as the tape played on, a sneaking suspicion growing within her. The echo of Danse laid bare his soul, stating his intentions plainly, and without emotion.

A suicide note.

Quinn leapt to her feet as the tape clicked and finished, her heart hammering away. Fuck the fact she was unarmed—she had to find him _now._

Images of his body swaying from a lamppost, or crumpled in some corner, a gun still warm in his cooling hand, flashed before her eyes. The panic was so great Quinn couldn’t breathe, her throat tight as she choked in fear. But she had barely taken two steps toward the exit when Quinn heard the most beautiful sound in existence.

“Quinn?”

She whirled on the spot, and there he was— _Danse—_ perplexed and obviously tired, but alive. God, he was _alive._

_“Danse!”_

She sprinted towards him, throwing herself into his arms so hard they both toppled to the ground. Her arms hurt, but she didn’t care.

“Don’t do that again! Don’t ever do that again! Don’t ever, ever, ever—"

It took several minutes for Danse to calm her down, the alarm clear in his face. “Is everything alright? What happened?”

“I just thought the Brotherhood may have found you,” Quinn replied, still shaking slightly. The lie came far too easily, rolling off her tongue like Bowmore whisky, but the truth was out of the question. Quinn knew Danse far too well—the last thing he would have wanted her to hear was the point he felt driven to make that tape.

“No,” Danse said, getting to his knees and dusting himself down. “I just went to scout the area to make sure we didn’t need to move.” He folded his arms, staring at her. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Quinn said firmly. Danse continued to study her, his brow furrowed with confusion, before eventually shaking his head.

“I think we should abandon this mission.” He gestured to the destroyed protectron and her arms. “We’re underprepared, you’re wounded, and we don’t have enough firepower for whatever else might be lurking in this structure.”

“I agree.”

Danse blinked, but Quinn felt too on edge to laugh. “You...you agree?”

“Yeah, I do.” She stood up, shouldering her ruined weapon, trying to ignore the sick feeling festering in her stomach. _He was going to kill himself. I could have found him dead. I could have lost him._ Quinn considered him for a moment, and the nausea increased. _I could still lose him. What if I wake up and find him—?_

“Quinn?”

Danse was frowning.

“Like you said,” Quinn said quickly, “we’re not ready. But I don’t think we should give up yet. Let’s go to Goodneighbor and rethink our approach.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Danse repeated, dragging himself to his feet. “I can’t go there. People know me. People—"

Quinn picked up his cowl off the floor and yanked it down over his head. “Problem solved.”

“But—"

“Danse,” she said firmly, her hands on her hips. “I know you don’t want to run into Nick and Hancock, but we can’t avoid them when they live in the main cities of the Commonwealth. We need supplies and we need new guns.” She gestured to her arms. “And I want to get these checked over to make sure they’re not infected.”

_But most of all, I don’t want to take you back to that bunker. Not if I can help it._

Behind his cowl, Quinn saw Danse’s eyes flick to her bandaged arms. He sighed heavily and nodded.

“Fine.” He sounded defeated. “I suppose they would have found out sooner or later.”

“I won’t tell them if you don’t want me to.”

Danse gave a small shrug and picked his coat up off the floor, pulling it back on. “What does it matter? Their opinions mean nothing to me.”

“Danse—"

“Let’s go,” he interrupted, shouldering his rucksack and striding from the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning! And thank you all for the comments and such.
> 
> Unfortunately, I've been massively busy, so I've not been able to respond to anyone. Literally got in from a full night shift just now and started working on getting the chapter released. So as soon as this is posted I'm gonna go pass out in my bed.
> 
> i am so tired ._.
> 
> But this chapter marks a 200,000 word milestone! So yay for that!
> 
> Potentially next chapter may be delayed as I'm having friends over this week and I'm gonna be busy. Keep an eye on my 'bnc' and 'bnc updates' tags on my tumblr for more info over the next week.
> 
> Goodnight~


	40. We, the Willing

Quinn couldn’t sleep.

Danse’s words crawled around her skull, the calmness of his voice in his holotape sending chills down her spine. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his body, crumpled in the corner of the bunker.

No, Quinn couldn’t sleep. She was afraid of what she might find when she woke up.

The solution to the problem had been a simple one. Quinn rubbed her eyes, stifling a yawn. If Danse could stay awake for days on end, then she could too. He hadn’t noticed her exhaustion so far, and with any luck, he never would. In Goodneighbor, there was no real need to take watch, and Danse was so far past the point of caring recently that he hadn’t argued with her about it. He was content to sit in the hotel room, day after day, working on the new rifles they’d bought in town.

Danse had fixed up Quinn’s gun before his own, going over it again and again until the battered casing shone like polished glass, and tinkered until he had upgraded it far past the capabilities of her original combat rifle. When he had handed it to her, looking tired but also satisfied, Quinn had been astounded by how light it felt, the mechanisms smooth and quick as she loaded it up for the first time.

Now he was working on his own weapon: another combat rifle. While the pistol Haylen had given him was—in Danse’s words—“sufficient,” he had always preferred to use a rifle when he could. The new gun was in a worse condition than Quinn’s had been—he insisted she take the better one. When Quinn questioned how he felt about using a standard gun again, Danse gave her a little shrug.

_“It’s not an energy weapon, but it’ll do.”_

Quinn shifted in her seat, digging her nails into her arm to fight the heaviness of her eyelids, and winced. The burns had been treated by Doctor Amari, and though the bandages were long gone, the skin was still tender. She studied her arms, noting the odd scarring the laser fire had left, and then jumped as someone knocked.

Danse snorted but didn’t wake, and Quinn hurried to answer the door. She was greeted by the roguish grin of John Hancock, but it faltered at the sight of her face, his eyes narrowing.

“You look like shit—" he began, but Quinn shushed him, jerking her thumb in the direction of Danse. She half expected Hancock to mock him, like he had last time, but instead he nodded.

“He needs it,” Hancock replied in a quieter voice. “Let’s go to my office where we can talk. Make sure you got your room key, though, so you don’t lock yourself out.”

“No, I…” Quinn hesitated, glancing back at Danse.

_“...for the benefit of humanity, I need to die…”_

“I can’t leave him alone.”

Hancock frowned. “Why? What’s happened?”

She fidgeted, but didn’t answer. Danse had said he didn’t care, but…

“Is he injured? Amari said you had some nasty burns but nothing about him.”

“No, he's not hurt. I’m just...I…”

“Quinn,” Hancock said, “I know he has bad nightmares. Saw them myself when he was with us in Sanctuary. But they're only dreams. He's still gonna be here when you get back. Half an hour in my office to tell me what’s wrong and why you had me send out my guys to bring the rest of the gang to Goodneighbor. That’s all I’m askin’. Okay?”

Quinn stared at Danse, her fingers tight on the door.

Half an hour. Only half an hour. Thirty minutes. She could spare thirty minutes.

...couldn’t she?

* * *

Raucous laughter enveloped her as she stepped into Hancock’s corner of the world, the air thick with smoke, courtesy of Nick, Piper, and MacCready. Preston stood at the edges of the gathering, coughing uncomfortably into a bottle of Nuka Cola, but still trying to join in with the conversation. When they spotted her, they greeted her loudly and cheerfully, their mirth turning into questions as she gave a half-hearted smile back. Only MacCready did not react to her despondency, his eyes sharp and knowing behind his cigarette.

Quinn told them everything.

Silence filled the room in the wake of her confession, their stunned faces saying more than any sentence they could utter.

“There must be some kind of mistake.” Piper’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “This is a joke, right?”

“Does it look like a joke?” Quinn snapped, too tired to guard her tone. “He avoided being executed by his own friends only because I fought tooth and nail to keep him alive. Maxson let him go, but the rest of the Brotherhood think he’s dead...and if they saw him again, they would shoot him on sight. Me too, if we're spotted together.”

“That man must be going through hell right now,” Nick said in a low voice. He shook his head and dragged on his cigarette.

“The Brotherhood ain’t welcome in my town.” Hancock lit up a smoke and puffed on it. “I don’t like people who are quick to turn on their own. Not that I needed an excuse to hate those bastards anyway.” He coughed into his sleeve and fixed Quinn with a fierce glare. “He can stay here. No chance of him running into them in Goodneighbor.”

Quinn felt herself swell with gratitude, but she shook her head. “I appreciate the gesture, but...well…”

“He’s still Danse?” Piper offered.

Sighing, Quinn nodded. “He’s...I tried to get him to go to Sanctuary with me. And even though he didn’t actually say it, the idea of seeing you all again, seeing anyone he knows again after finding out what he is…”

“He thinks we’d care?” asked Preston.

“More than that. He thinks it’s something you’ll laugh about. Mock him or use it against him. Turn on him, the way everyone else has.”

“Well, he’s an idiot,” Hancock replied.

A murmur of agreement echoed across the group. MacCready said nothing, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

Quinn looked at each serious face to the next. When had this transformation happened? To say Danse had made a poor first impression with her friends was like saying the bomb that fell on Boston had caused a mild delay in the city’s public transport system.

“I thought you all despised him,” she said, bewildered.

“Then why did you tell us he was a synth?” Preston asked, his brow furrowing.

“Because I wanted to make sure that any talk about him is kept to a minimum, so the Brotherhood doesn't catch on to any rumours,” Quinn replied with a shrug. “And...and also to make sure you didn’t mention the Brotherhood in front of him either. It’s a pretty touchy topic at the moment.”

“I’ll bet,” said MacCready from the sofa, playing with the fraying cuff of his jacket.

“So no more calling him tin can?” Hancock said, looking somewhat put out.

“I don’t know.” Quinn shrugged. “Try to use your best judgement.”

“Now that’s asking for trouble,” said Nick, stubbing out his cigarette on a battered chest of drawers.

“I gotta agree with the toaster detective,” Hancock said with a grin, dropping down on the sofa next to MacCready and putting his feet up on the old coffee table. “My usual jet-mentat cocktail puts my best judgement somewhere in the vicinity of…” He gave a vague hand gesture. “Which reminds me…”

He pulled out a packet of mentats and opened them, offering the box around. MacCready hesitated before shaking his head and folding his arms.

“Back on topic for a second,” Piper said, rolling her eyes at the ghoul, “yeah, Danse...Danse didn’t exactly get off to a good start with us. But when we were organising the funeral—" Piper paused, studying Quinn before she continued, "I really warmed up to him. I think we all did.”

“He tries my patience sometimes, but that doesn’t make him a bad man,” Nick said in a thoughtful voice. “He’s a blockhead, but he’s one of us.”

More murmurs of agreement.

Quinn smiled, warmth pulsing through her chest at their sincerity, and an idea struck her. Initially she had just brought them here to make sure they kept quiet, but now…

She cleared her throat, her smile still wide, and said. “Hancock, do you remember that armour you told me about in 35 Court?”

Hancock paused, looking perplexed. He glanced at the others, as if expecting someone to explain the question to him. Blank expressions greeted him, so he turned back to Quinn.

“Yeah...why?”

* * *

All eyes were on them as they left Goodneighbor the following morning. Danse pulled his cowl up as far as it would go, tugging down on his hood at the same time, staring at the floor.

“Come on, tin can,” Hancock said cheerily. “You ain’t that ugly.”

Danse did not reply.

He had said very little last night when Quinn had told him that the group knew his secret, and even less when she had added they were going to help him get the power armour. Instead, he had returned to tinkering with his gun, replying with one word answers until she had given up. When the others had joined them in the hotel the following morning, bringing ammunition and better armour, he had said nothing at all, avoiding everyone’s eye.

The others filled the silence as they made their way through Boston ruins, laughing and joking between fights with ghouls and raiders. Quinn tried to join in, but her tiredness had reached such a level that thoughts felt sluggish in her head, conversations slow to process, more effort than they were worth. Beneath his cowl and hood, Danse frowned at her as she tripped and stumbled her way through the city, mumbling her contributions to the stream of talk.

By the time they reached 35 Court, Quinn was spent. Her legs felt like lead. Her eyes screamed at her to let them close. Her temper was at breaking point. All the noise was too much. She just wanted them to _shut the fuck up._

Pushing back her aggression, Quinn stalked inside the building, stepping over fragments of the singed welcome desk and pieces of rubble. The blast had scorched much of the foyer.

“Are we gonna be able to get up top, Blue?” Piper asked, moving aside debris that had once been the protectron with her foot.

“Depends if the elevator is working.” Quinn strode over and punched a few of the buttons, leaving fingerprints in the sooty sheen that covered the panel. A distorted _ping_ chimed, and the elevator rumbled to life, its doors sliding open to welcome them.

“Are you sure this is safe?” MacCready said, eyeing the elevator suspiciously. “That explosion could have damaged the cables.”

“Nah, it wasn’t big enough.”

“Or—"

“Quinn,” Danse said suddenly.

Everyone turned to look at him. It had been the first word any of them had heard him speak that day. Quinn frowned and stepped towards him.

“I don’t like this.” He still didn’t meet her eye, instead staring down at the floor. “This isn’t worth the risk. We should head back.”

“Danse—"

“No.” Finally, he met her gaze, his expression hard but determined. “Don’t do this. Not for me.”

“If I have to drag you to that armour myself, I will,” Hancock drawled, rolling his eyes. “Can’t call you tin can if you don’t have the clanking suit to match, right?”

Danse said nothing, scowling at Hancock.

“We’re wasting time,” Nick interjected.

“But—"

“No more arguing,” interrupted Piper. “We’re doing this, Danse, and that’s final.” She flapped her hands, ushering them all inside, despite the grumbling that met her demands. “Now come on. In! In! Come on! We can all fit with a bit of effort!”

“I don’t know if—" Quinn heard someone say, but Piper cut across his protests without mercy.

“MacCready, you’re the smallest out of everyone. You’ll be fine.”

MacCready muttered under his breath as howls of laughter filled the elevator, and even Danse seemed to be smiling from behind his cowl. Whether by happy accident or clever scheming, Piper had somehow managed to squish Quinn right next to him, her body pressed against his. Piper forced her way into the gathering, eliciting a series of groans, and then the elevator doors closed with a _clunk_ , throwing them all into darkness.

The others giggled and jostled amongst themselves— _“MacCready, is that your rifle or are you just pleased to see me?”_ —but Quinn was far too distracted to focus on their words. Hoping no one else would notice, she laid her head against Danse’s shoulder.

As she expected, he flinched. But then he took her by surprise, his hand creeping up to touch her waist by the very tips of his fingers. For the briefest of seconds, Quinn felt content.

The moment was snatched away as the lights inside the elevator flicked on. She felt his hand drop, and he shifted position as he pulled his cowl off, forcing her to stand up straight again.

When the elevator shuddered to a halt and the door slid open, a chill filled the air, the howl of the wind barely audible over the sound of a wailing alarm. The gathering filed out into the corridor, its splendour disguised by centuries of decay. Danse strode past all of them, gun raised, the echoes of his old authority resonating from his purposeful stride. He peered around the corner, and then gestured for them to follow.

“I thought you weren’t keen on this plan?” Hancock said, strolling over with a smirk on his face.

“I think this is pure lunacy,” Danse snapped, throwing the group an ugly look, “but my opinion won’t change the fact you’re going to do it anyway. So if you’re so insistent on continuing with this stupidity on my behalf, the least I can do is try to keep you all safe.”

Hancock looked taken aback for a moment, glancing over to the equally stunned Nick and Preston, but then he nodded, his expression serious. “Fair enough. But I’m sure we’ll be fi—"

Danse ignored him and disappeared around the corner.

Anxiety crept up in Quinn and she hurried to follow, disregarding the looks the others gave each other. Yes, Danse was difficult, rude, and stubborn, even on a good day, but this level of spite wasn’t like him. The others...they didn’t _understand._ They hadn’t seen him lost in silent thought for days on end, or otherwise sleeping just to fill the empty hours. They hadn’t seen him barely eating, barely speaking, barely able to hold eye contact with her no matter how hard she tried.

They hadn’t heard his tape.

Quinn caught up with him further down the corridor, halfway up a section of collapsed ceiling that led to the next floor.

“Danse—" she began, but he held up a hand and edged his way out of sight. Then she heard a cool, synthesised voice over the alarm.

_“Engaging target.”_

A crackling noise snapped through the air, followed by a yell of pain, and Danse came crashing back down the ramp, his clothes smoking at the chest. Although the sirens drowned them out, Quinn didn’t have to hear the wheezes to know he was struggling; she could see it in his panic-stricken face. But before Quinn could help, an assaultron appeared at the opening above, its pincer hands electrified and spinning, a fiery red light growing from its head.

Knowing she only had seconds to act, Quinn sprinted up the ramp and threw herself at the robot. Pain ripped through her as she made contact with its sparking hands, and her vision blurred as they toppled over onto the floor. Quinn yelped as she banged her nose on the assaultron’s chest plate and something hot and salty trickled down into her mouth. A roar sounded in her ears, and a beam fired from the robot’s head, shooting up into the open air.

“Quinn, move!” yelled a voice.

Quinn rolled off the robot and dragged herself to her feet, but the assaultron was ready for her. It crawled across the floor with startling speed, reaching out with its deadly hands, its face beginning to glow again.

“Oh no you don’t!” Hancock slammed his booted foot down on the assaultron’s back, pinning it to the floor, pointing his shotgun at its head.

_Bang._

The assaultron jerked, the light in its faceplate flickering as it struggled, still reaching out to Quinn as it said, _“I have been programmed to efficiently terminate human comba—"_

_Bang._

The metal cracked, small shards and pieces spraying up into the air as it began to twitch and shudder on the floor.

_Bang._

The head shattered, broken components and scraps of wire scattering like bone and brain. The assaultron fell still.

“Thanks,” Quinn said, wiping her aching nose. Her hand came away smeared with red. Remembering Danse, she ran back down the ramp, past MacCready and Piper, who were walking up to join Hancock.

Danse sat propped against a wall, Preston and Nick at his side. His eyes had taken on a blank, glazed quality, lips parted and shaking, his pale skin covered in a glistening sheen of sweat.

“We've got him!” yelled Preston over the alarm, nodding to Quinn. “Go check the others don't need any—"

A series of shouts and gunfire cut across his words, followed by a deep electronic voice. Quinn had only heard it once before, underneath the Castle where the last leader of the Minutemen had met his end.

_“Hostiles detected. Threat level: RED.”_

Both Quinn and Preston glanced at each other, eyes wide.

“Nick, stay with Danse!” Quinn scrambled back up the ramp, her heart racing, reaching the top level just in time to see the sentry bot slam into Hancock, knocking him off his feet. Piper darted around it, firing shots that ricocheted uselessly off its thick metal armour, while MacCready clambered up a partially collapsed statue and took aim with his rifle.

Quinn had barely taken two steps forward, deciding to completely wing her next actions, when the blaring shriek of Preston’s laser musket went off and a jet of red light streaked past her. It hit the sentry bot with such force a piece of its armour came off.

The robot stopped its advance on Hancock and swivelled around to face Preston with startling speed.

_“Weapons free.”_

_“Oh crap,”_ Quinn saw him say, though she couldn't hear the words.

Another chunk came out of its plating as MacCready took a shot, and the sentry bot whirled around again, opening fire without warning. MacCready jerked back and fell from his perch, disappearing out of sight as his weapon clattered across the floor.

It was all the time Quinn needed. She grabbed Preston by the collar and dragged him over to the where the walls had collapsed, leaving an opening to city far below.

“Fire and then get out of the way!” Quinn bellowed.

“What?”

“Shoot! Shoot now!”

Preston obeyed, cranking up his laser musket and releasing a blast that hit the sentry bot in the back. Quinn shoved Preston aside and opened fire as it faced her, trying desperately to keep its attention.

_“Weapons system locked on. Engaging hostile target,”_ it rumbled, rushing forward.

Quinn held her ground, ignoring the panicked shrieks of her friends. At the very last second, she threw herself sideways onto Preston, and the sentry bot barrelled past her, flying out into the open air.

It soared for the briefest of moments, and yet seemed to hang for an eternity, its treads wheeling endlessly as it tried to grip on the emptiness around it. Then it was gone, plummeting out of sight, before a distant boom below signalled the end of its sudden descent.

Preston groaned beneath her and Quinn rolled off him with a stream of apologies, the adrenaline leaving her as quickly as it had arrived, exhaustion taking its place. She ignored the stinging in her palms and knees, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she checked Preston over. “Is everyone alright?”

She glanced about the room. Piper, who knelt next to Hancock, gave her a thumbs up. Quinn looked over to the ramp leading back down to the elevator and yelled, “Nick?”

“We're fine!” Nick hollered back.

Good. Her heart settled before she remembered someone was missing.

“MacCready!” She jogged across the room, trying to locate him. “MacCready!”

No answer. The sentry bot had managed to knock him down from his sniping spot, but how bad had he been hit? Panic started to well up inside her as she shouted, “Robert, you okay?”

“Robert?” came MacCready’s voice from behind a pile of rubble. He dragged himself into view, his right hand clamped over his bleeding arm, the armour covering his chest dented and smoking. “Don't get all formal on me just because you thought I was dead.”

Quinn ran over and helped him up. Then she hugged him, ignoring his yelps of pain as she said, “Ass.”

Hancock was bruised, but otherwise fine, and Preston had a few scrapes from where he'd landed, as well as a cut under his eye, courtesy of Quinn using him to break her fall. Piper alone had managed to remain unscathed.

“Lucky,” muttered Hancock.

“Can you guys see to MacCready, please?” she said, guiding MacCready over to a pile of rubble.

“Bullets went straight through,” said MacCready, rolling his eyes. “It's just a flesh wound, boss. I'll be fine.”

“Sit your ass down, shut up,” Quinn said pleasantly, “and let Preston take a look at you.” She forced him onto the rubble, holding him in place with her best glare. MacCready grumbled, but did as he was told, letting Preston treat his wounds.

“Hancock, can you find a way to turn the alarms off? I need to speak to Danse.”

“Sure thing.” Hancock tipped his hat at her and strode off towards the alcove the sentry bot had come from.

Quinn smiled at him and then turned and hurried down the ramp to the lower level. A few seconds later, the alarm cut out.

True to his word, Nick had stayed by Danse’s side, his gun raised as he waited, ready for battle. The old synth relaxed when he saw Quinn, and nodded to Danse.

“Seen this once or twice with the older cops in the force.” The detective paused and shook his head. “Or at least the _real_ Nick Valentine did.” He shot a wary glance at the man on the floor and then looked back at Quinn, before saying in a low voice, “He's got it bad, kid. Bad enough to tell me he's had this for a while now. You knew, didn't you?”

Quinn nodded, her mouth dry. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Nate had something similar, back when he...back before the bombs. But Danse has only had episodes when he's been under a huge amount of stress. Or...or when he’s been in a situation that...well...similar to…”

Nick held up his skeletal, metal hand. “Say no more. I don't need to know his demons. Is he gonna be alright?”

“I think he'll come out of it soon. But…”

“Then I'll wait up top with the others. Take all the time you need.”

Nick strode off without another word.

Quinn sat down next to Danse and took his hands in her own, speaking firm, but gentle, words of grounding, everything that she knew to bring him back.

Slowly but surely, Danse returned. At first he seemed embarrassed, but it quickly turned to horror when he spotted the blood all over Quinn’s face. He tried to pull his hands away from her, but she held on, squeezing his fingers tight as she explained what he’d missed.

“This happened because of me,” Danse said, leaning back against the wall and shutting his eyes. “If I hadn't—"

“You were hit with an electric shock right in the chest,” Quinn interrupted. “That would have put anyone out of the fight. And with all the stress you've been under lately, I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner. Stop blaming yourself, and—”

She paused. She didn't want to pressure him, but…

_“...for the benefit of humanity, I need to die...”_

Her stomach turned, but her resolve also strengthened. “—and stop trying to shut me out. I'm here to help you, but I can't do that if you keep pushing me away.”

Danse frowned. “I'm not—"

“You _are.”_ Quinn wondered whether to mention she had heard his tape. She decided no. “You're barely speaking to me, Danse. You won't look at me half the time, and you're—”

_Avoiding me._

“—acting differently than before.”

A long silence followed her words. Eventually, Danse sighed and nodded. He looked defeated.

“I'm sorry...it's just…” He stopped as Quinn held up her hand.

“You don't need to be sorry,” she said gently, giving his fingers another slight squeeze. “You've done nothing wrong. Just try to remember that I'm here for you, whenever you're ready to talk.”

Danse nodded, and when Quinn smiled, he smiled back.

“Come on,” she said, getting to her feet and helping him stand. “Let's go claim your prize.”

“My prize?”

“We didn't come here for a tour of the building, Danse.”

He laughed a little at this and reached out, touching her arm, before going red and jerking his hand back. Quinn pretended not to notice, but she couldn't keep the grin from her face.

They rejoined the others, stepping over the still sparking remains of the assaultron. Hancock looked Danse up and down and said, “How you doin’, tin can?”

He didn't reply, colour flushing to his cheeks as he shot Quinn a nervous glance. She gave him a small smile and nudged him.

Danse turned back to Hancock and after a few beats said, “Better.”

The ghoul nodded, but didn't respond, and Quinn sighed internally. This was probably as civil as things were ever going to get between the two of them.

Piper pointed to something behind Quinn and Danse, and they both turned as she said, “It’s all yours, soldier boy.”

Danse’s eyes widened at the sight of the armour, an almost childlike wonder rising in his worn face.

Quinn had to admit herself that the suit was a sight to behold. She had heard about the _X-01_ series from Hancock—a power armour that had been created by the last of the US army after the bombs had fell—but she had never actually seen a set before.

Gleaming and rust free, the power armour looked like it had never been worn. The metal had been gently burnished so that each and every part glowed under the low spotlighting of its vault. It held an air of menace, the shape of its helm looking more predatory than any of the pre-war models.

Hesitating only for a moment, Danse took a step towards the suit.

A hiss of pain made him stop, and he glanced over his shoulder. Quinn followed his gaze and saw the noise had come from MacCready, who had paled considerably since she had last spoken to him. Preston was still trying to tend to the wounds, the frown on the Minuteman’s face deepening with each passing second.

“Is everything alright?” Danse asked, turning around to look at MacCready and Preston.

“Yeah,” said Preston, not looking up. “Just having a little difficulty with this. I can do basic first aid, but normally a stimpak and a bit of gauze solves the problem.”

“It’s no big deal,” MacCready insisted, before giving another groan as Preston inspected the entry wounds again.

Danse considered them for a moment, and then walked away from the vault, taking the rucksack off his back and crouching down next to MacCready. “Let me take a look.”

 “I’m fine.”

“You’re wounded, civilian, and at high risk of—”

MacCready snorted. “Civilian?”

Danse didn’t answer, surveying the damage with a gentle hand and a sharp eye. “Stimpaks are not a miracle cure. We need to stem the bleeding and patch you up for the best treatment. Hold your arm up.”

MacCready grumbled, but obeyed.

Danse looked over his shoulder to Preston. “Apply indirect pressure to the wounds while I work.”

Preston blinked. “Indirect pressure?”

Danse said nothing for a second, and Quinn could almost hear his internal dialogue of, _“Undisciplined, untrained settlers in uniform.”_ Despite herself, she grinned.

After a few seconds, Danse managed to get control of himself and nodded, before patiently explaining the procedure to Preston. Indirect pressure, as Quinn already knew from Cade, was applying pressure to specific points on the body where an artery ran over a bone. Doing so with enough force would immediately stop blood flow to any wound below the pressure point.

He directed Preston to push down on a spot on the inside of MacCready’s upper arm, next to the armpit, and almost at once, the blood trickled away. Danse set to work at once, cleaning the wounds and checking for any obvious signs of lodged bullets and shrapnel, and sealing the entry and exit points, explaining everything to Preston as he went along. Finally, when everything was done, Danse injected a stimpak and bandaged MacCready’s arm.

Only when Danse finished inspecting his handiwork and looked up, did he realise they were all staring at him, hanging onto his every word. Pink crept up into his cheeks, and he glanced back down at MacCready’s arm, before nodding and standing.

“Have Doctor Amari check it over when we return to Goodneighbor,” he said, doing his best to ignore the watching eyes focused on him.

“I will. Thanks.” MacCready paused, glancing at Nick and then back to Danse, his brow furrowed. Eventually he said, “Don’t think we’ve been introduced. Name’s MacCready. Robert Joseph MacCready.”

“Paladin Danse,” Danse replied, and then froze, the colour draining from his skin as he clenched his fists.

“Tin can,” Hancock said quickly, breaking the ice that had settled in the atmosphere, “if you don’t take that damn armour, then I will. Stop keeping us in suspense.”

The others broke into chatter and encouragement, hastily covering up any mention of the Brotherhood. After a few seconds, Danse rolled his eyes, looking bewildered, but pleasantly so. He walked to the armour, raising up a hand, before hesitating and drawing back from it, as if afraid to mar it with his fingerprints.

With the care that a parent would comfort a child, Danse laid his hand on the gleaming metal of the suit. He closed his eyes, and something painful flickered through his features before he opened them again.

“Thank you,” he said, staring down at the suit. “All of you. This...I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Piper helping MacCready to his feet and handing him his rifle. “That’s what friends do, right?”

Danse frowned, but still didn’t look at them. “Friends?”

“Yeah, you big lout.” Piper grinned, her hands on her hips.

“Well, I dunno,” said Hancock, removing his hat and dusting the debris off it. “I prefer the love-hate relationship we have, tin can.” He jammed his hat back on his head and winked. “But I think I can make an exception.”

Danse grinned, and then immediately forced himself to be serious again, turning back to his new set of armour.

Quinn noticed that Nick and MacCready stayed on the edge of the gathering, keeping out of the conversation. She didn’t blame them. MacCready barely knew Danse, and Nick...well, Nick knew better than to step in now, whether he liked Danse or not. And yet the old synth was still here. That spoke volumes in itself.

_You’re a better person than me, Valentine,_ Quinn thought, cringing at how Danse had treated the detective in the past.

She sighed to herself as she dragged her attention back to Danse, and became aware that he was watching her. Every tense line in his face was gone, his expression warm as he looked at her like they were the only ones present. On his lips was the gentlest of smiles - tender and grateful.

* * *

“...and the sensors within the suit are zero point _three_ percent more efficient than the _T-60_ series, as well as the plating being two inches thicker overall.”

Quinn listened as Danse chattered away, grinning at his excitement.  He had been quiet on the trip back to Goodneighbor, taking time to adjust to the capabilities of his new armour. The moment they were alone in the hotel room, though, he had began to talk, his eyes bright with enthusiasm for the first time since his exile.

Eventually he stopped pacing around and left the armour, settling himself in his usual place at the desk, working on his rifle, but still telling Quinn every single detail and difference with his new suit.

She knew this was a distraction at best, until he remembered why he’d needed a new set of power armour in the first place, but for now Quinn was content to let him have his moment. If anything, it was good to see him _happy_ for a change, even if it wouldn’t last.

Danse paused as he picked up his rifle, turning it over in his hands as he scrutinised his handiwork.

“So, better than the armour the Brotherhood gave you?” Quinn said, taking advantage of the silence.

It was the wrong thing to say. Danse flinched, and the gun slipped from his hands, landing on the desk with a loud bang.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, kicking herself for her stupidity. “I didn’t think.”

“It’s fine,” said Danse in a tone that suggested the complete opposite. He stared blankly at the wall, his hands on his lap. When he turned to her, the dead quality had returned to his eyes. “Yes, this new armour is better than my old one, but…”

Quinn said nothing. She couldn’t force this conversation. After a few seconds, Danse sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve...I had that armour almost as long as I can remember.” He clutched at his hair for a moment and then let his hand drop. “I was so proud when I was finally issued it. It saw me all the way through training with Krieg...the war with the Enclave…” Danse swallowed. “...Cutler.”

He returned his attention to his rifle and started to fiddle with it, before placing it back down again and putting his face in his hands. “The Brotherhood doesn’t waste resources. That armour will be given to someone else. My replacement. Or repainted and issued to one of our new recruits. The idea of someone else wearing it…”

Quinn frowned at his use of the word ‘our,’ as if he still considered himself Brotherhood, but decided to ignore it. “Maybe they won’t—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “I understand what you’re trying to do, but don’t. I don’t want false hope. I need to accept my losses and move on. I…” He stood up, paced briefly about the room, and then leaned against the desk, his arms folded tight against his chest. “You told me to talk to you when I’m ready. And after everything that’s happened today…”

“Danse,” Quinn said, shaking her head, “you don’t need to talk just because—”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for such a conversation,” Danse interrupted, glaring at the floor. “But I need to have it. I need to…” He hesitated and then sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I really thought this would be easier. There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t know where to start.”

“You don’t have to rush this,” Quinn said softly. She considered moving closer to him, but decided against it. Whenever he faced turmoil, Danse needed his space. Instead, she said, “I’ll help you work through it.”

“I don’t know if anything will help me work through it.” He said nothing for a few moments, his face creased with distress. His next words were slow, as if he was wading through a sea of chaos and conflict to voice how he felt. “I’ve spent my entire life—or at least what I perceive as my life—following a plan to shape my own future. But since my banishment, I feel lost...almost like I exist without purpose.”

Danse chewed his lip and then shook his head. “For the first time since that moment I signed up with the Brotherhood, I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have a plan. And it scares the _hell_ out of me.”

Danse, scared? He had never admitted he was scared before, choosing to soldier on instead, as he always had. Even in his holotape, he had made no mention of fear. The urge to comfort him increased, but Quinn held back, feeling tense. What could she _say_ to such a confession?

“What you’ve gone through…” Quinn tried to choose her words carefully. “It would fuck anyone up, Danse. You’re just...you’re just confused.”

“You’re damn right I’m confused,” he snapped, suddenly scowling at her. Quinn shrank back, but he didn’t seem to notice. Devastation crossed his features as he said, “I’m a machine that thinks like a human who was trained to hunt my own kind.”

“Danse—”

“Don’t you _understand?”_ He stood up straight and began stalking around the room again, gesturing wildly. “Everything I had, everything I _knew_ is gone. In the span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my world turned upside-down. At least what you had was something tangible...something _real._ Your husband, your son...they were living, _breathing_ humans who l _oved you_ and _cared_ for you.”

Quinn felt anger flare up inside of her; the fact he was using the destruction of her own life as a comparison hit a nerve. As if watching the entire world be obliterated, her husband murdered, and her son corrupted beyond redemption didn’t hurt as much because it was real.

_This isn’t a fucking competition,_ she thought bitterly. _My world was turned upside-down, too._

But then Quinn stopped herself. This man, ranting in front of her—this wasn’t Danse. This was his fury, his turmoil—his _despair_ —speaking. This was everything he needed to vent, and Quinn would not stand in his way. Swallowing her displeasure, she continued to listen.

“Those sons of bitches who created me couldn’t even be _bothered_ to implant memories of having siblings or parents,” Danse went on, his voice rising in volume alongside his anger with every passing second. “I don’t even know how much of my past is artificial and how much is real. Can you even _imagine_ that?”

There was a long pause and Danse stood still, breathing heavily through his nose, his cheeks tinged with red. Then all at once he seemed to deflate, leaning back against the desk as he hung his head.

“I started out as _nothing,”_ he said, his tone dejected. “And I’ve ended up as _nothing_...and I don’t know what _the hell to do about it.”_

Danse’s voice broke in his last few words, and Quinn felt her heart break with him. But she couldn’t let this stand.

“You are _not_ nothing, Danse,” she said fiercely, stepping towards him.

“But—”

“You have _never_ been nothing.”

In another time and another place, Quinn might have gone on. She might have told him what he meant to her, and everything that she felt about him. How much she cared for him. How much she adored him.

But it was not the time, and it was not the place. Danse was vulnerable, more vulnerable than she had ever seen him before. To suggest anything would be as good as forcing him into a corner.

Instead, Quinn reached forward and took him in her arms. She felt him freeze, shifting in his seated spot on the desk, and Quinn realised that possibly for the first time in his life, someone was comforting _him._ Had he ever been held by another?

Danse sat there for a moment, and then slowly he rested his head against her shoulder, his hands tentatively touching her back. Then, without warning, he pulled her close. Danse’s head bowed into her as he clung on desperately, his shoulders moving with his heavy breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thank you for all the reviews! Been super busy as of late so not really been able to reply. I need to fix that.
> 
> Brief update: my beta will be on holiday between the 4th and 12th of August, so there will be no chapter on the weekend during those dates (6/7th) and potentially the weekend after (13/14th). A nice hiatus for me too, I guess?
> 
> (who am I kidding. I'll just write more buffer chapters)
> 
> I saw a discussion on tumblr about how the relationship start with Danse is really...manipulative, and I gotta agree with it. You have a man going through an identity crisis, pouring his soul out to you about how he's lost and he doesn't know who he is or what his purpose in life is anymore. He is so incredibly vulnerable in that moment.
> 
> And Sole hits on him?
> 
> To me that feels like when Quinn came back from the Institute and there's an almost kiss between her and Danse, only Danse is sensible and says no. When people are emotionally vulnerable, you don't start confessing your love to them. @_@
> 
> So yeah. Quinn ain't like that. She gets it. :D


	41. Dream a Little Dream of Me

The dream was vivid.

Voices echoed around Quinn as she walked back to the hotel room, Goodneighbor shrouded in the kind of fog that only existed in fantasy. And yet she knew exactly where she was going.

Tiredness dragged her down like a weighted noose, but Quinn trudged on, making faint goodbyes to faceless friends whose names she couldn’t quite cling to. Finally, she reached the door, and tried to open it, the handle stiff and icy cold beneath her fingers. It rattled on its lock, but it would not budge.

Quinn kicked it, yelling Danse’s name, her breath misting with the chill. The idiot was probably tinkering with his guns or asleep, or—

She blinked.

The door was now frosted glass, shadows lurking just out of sight. Quinn inhaled sharply, the cold raking against her throat, and her heart began to race. She knew what was coming, knew what was about to happen. She didn’t want to see it, but something was preventing her from closing her eyes.

Quinn wiped at the glass, creating a clear window to Nate. He was arguing, holding onto Shaun for dear life, fighting with everything he had. Her fists were beating on the door as she screamed his name, unable to stop Kellogg, unable to stop it happening again.

The glass cracked.

She paused. The glass had never cracked before. Quinn glanced up to see Nate still struggling, Kellogg still considering him, the hand holding the gun at his side. Panicked determination flooded through her, and she began hitting the door with everything she had, not caring when her skin split and her knuckles bled, or when the jagged crack bit into her flesh. Even when a loud crunch sounded and pain shot through her hand, Quinn didn’t pause, and soon there was a hole large enough for her to fit her arm through.

Kellogg sauntered over, leaning so close to her pod she could have throttled him.

Quinn blinked. Kellogg was no longer there. Instead, there was Shaun. He peered at her, wearing a blank smile as he said, _“His death was...an unfortunate bit of collateral damage.”_

Shaun stepped back, pressing a button on the console next to her pod, and Quinn fell forward as the door swung open, hitting the floor with a thud.

Gone was the cold, replaced by the odd feel of worn carpet beneath her fingers. Quinn glanced up and saw she had finally gotten through the door of her hotel room in Goodneighbor. The fear drained away and she pulled herself to her feet, smiling. Why on earth had she ever been so worried? Of course Danse would have heard her. Of course he would answer the door.

Still, as she walked through the room, a sense of uneasiness swept over her. It was dark and uninhabited, as if no one had lived there for years. But she _knew_ she had left Danse in here only half an hour ago.

_Synth._

Quinn remembered seconds before she found him, slumped in the far corner of the room. The back of his head was gone, decorating the peeling wallpaper behind him.

Quinn barely remembered screaming, barely remembered grabbing him and shaking him. All she could see was the peaceful look on his face as she fought against the unseen hands trying to pull her back, pull her away from—

* * *

“Quinn!”

Quinn woke with a start to see Danse looming over her, his face wrought with concern. She tried to speak his name, but her throat was tight, and all she could do was wheeze until he sat her up, massaging her back as she fought against her panic attack.

When it subsided, Quinn buried herself in his arms, not caring what the consequences might be. The images of his cold, dead body were burned into her brain. She needed to touch him, to smell him and feel the warmth of his skin. To know he was still _there._

Danse held Quinn until the shaking subsided, and then prised her away, still looking worried. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” The images of Nate and Shaun and Danse played like a macabre slideshow in her head, and suddenly Quinn wanted to be away from him. She wriggled free and stood up, looking at the bed she had dozed off on, the book she had been reading on the floor.

“Just a bad dream.” She wiped the sweat off her face and picked the book up, tucking the loose pages back in. “I’m fine.”

“You look exhausted,” he said, getting to his feet.

“I’m _fine,”_ Quinn said again, sharper this time as she stalked past him. He needed to mind his own damn business.

Danse caught her arm and dragged her back towards him, frowning, his grip tightening as she tried to pull away. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve not been sleeping.”

Quinn twisted her arm out of his grasp, his accusatory tone aggravating her sour mood. Tiredness had deprived her of what little patience she had. “Why the hell do you care?”

“You know why.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I…” he looked helplessly at her and then sighed. “Never mind.”

Quinn felt a twinge of guilt for snapping at him. The wounded expression he was wearing wasn’t making anything easier. But she just felt so _tired._ Right now, Quinn wanted to curl up and cry, but what good would that do? She needed to get a hold of herself. She needed to stay awake.

“Anything happen while I was out?” she asked, playing with the torn corner of her book.

“Piper stopped by to see how you were, but you were asleep. She said to tell you they were all going to be in Hancock’s office for the next few hours before they went their separate ways.”

“What are you waiting for then?” Quinn tossed her book on the bed and forced a grin. “Let’s go.”

Danse did not return the smile. “You should get some more rest.”

“I don’t know when I’m going to see them again. Sleep can wait.” She put her hands on her hips. “And you’re coming with me.”

“And if I don’t want to?” His eyes narrowed as he folded his arms.

The question made her heart stop. Did he know? And if Danse refused to leave, she wouldn’t be able to go without him. How long until he found out she had heard his tape?

“Well if you want to sit in this shitty room all by yourself for hours on end, be my guest,” Quinn countered waspishly, glaring at him.

Danse scowled back. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I can’t make you.”

He stomped past her without another word.

* * *

“I’m sensing some tension between you and your synth buddy.”

Quinn shot MacCready a withering look, and he shrugged, sipping on his beer before saying, “Just an observation.”

Danse sat between Piper and Preston on the other side of the room. He averted his eyes from her, listening to Hancock tell a joke with such determination he seemed on the verge of exploding.

“Well observe something else,” she said, taking a swig from her own beer.

“Touchy today, aren’t we?”

“What do you want, MacCready?”

“Just to let you know the job from the Slog went off without a hitch. That friend of yours—Carson, was it? He was right: Rachel is a hell of a fighter.”

The admiration in his voice was unmistakeable. Neither was the look that crossed his eyes. She had seen it countless times with Nate, when things had been getting...intimate. Quinn smirked.

“Sounds like someone has a schoolboy crush,” she mumbled into her drink. As she hoped, MacCready turned scarlet.

“N-no!” he stammered, immediately looking annoyed with himself. “She’s—well—I…” His excuses stopped as he leaned back in his seat and pulled his hat over his eyes.

Quinn’s grin was wide now as she leaned over, a delightful notion crossing her mind. She rested her chin on his shoulder and said, “What did you two get up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Robert Joseph MacCready, you’re the same colour as a Nuka Cola truck. Stop fibbing.”

A long pause. And then—

“Yeah, alright, fine. Stuff happened.” He said it quickly, as if he didn’t want to think about it any longer than he had to. “We holed up in the Gunner base after we dealt with them. Got rid of the bodies. Found some booze. Decided to celebrate. One thing led to another, and…”

MacCready sank deep into his chair, pulling his hat down even further.

The mental image of Rachel and MacCready tickled Quinn somewhat—Rachel was taller than him after all—but the look on his face made the laughter die in her throat.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting up straight again. “Everyone needs a bit of fun now and then.”

“Because of Lucy,” MacCready snapped, wrenching his hat back up and revealing eyes blazing with anger. But then slowly it turned into guilt, and he leaned forward, shaking his head as he said, “She’s dead. She’s dead and I...I shouldn’t have...”

“Wanna step outside for a bit?”

“Yeah.” MacCready leapt to his feet and swept from the room, leaving Quinn to hurry out after him. Thankfully, the others were too engrossed in Hancock’s tale to notice, and with Danse surrounded by people, she felt safe leaving him alone.

When she joined him on the balcony, MacCready was draining the last of his beer. He set down the bottle and tried to light a cigarette, but his shaking hands kept missing. Quinn took the lighter from him and held it under his smoke, and he nodded gratefully before puffing on it.

The two of them said nothing, leaning on the railings and staring out into the town below, watching a fight between two drunken ghouls. Their yells and the whoops of encouragement from the spectators in the street filled the silence.

MacCready took a deep drag of his cigarette and let out a long stream of smoke. “God, I miss her.”

“Lucy?”

“Yeah.” He inhaled on the smoke again and coughed a little before saying, “But I still had a good time with Rachel. I don’t know. The whole thing is fu— _is messed up._ And I think Rachel feels just as guilty as me. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone.”

“She mentioned her husband to you?” Quinn asked carefully.

MacCready nodded. “We talked a bit about our kids and our families while we were on the road to deal with the Gunners. I remember the Enclave back when I was in the Capital Wasteland. Cruel sons of bi— _nasty_ guys. Doesn’t surprise me they’d kill her husband and daughter like that.”

“I know you feel bad,” Quinn said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “but you’re allowed to feel for other people and act on it if you want to. God knows I’ve had to learn that since Nate died.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but he smiled all the same. “I figured out of everyone I knew, you’d get it.” MacCready sighed. “Feels like shi—I mean—I don’t feel too great now, but…” He shrugged. “I’ll work through it and I’ll be fine. Just needed to get it off my chest, I think.”

MacCready’s smile faltered as he flicked his cigarette away, and he motioned for her to follow. They walked back in, side by side, just in time to hear Hancock deliver his punch line. The others roared with laughed; Danse was the only exception, his eyes watching her through the gloom, before darting away again when he realised she had seen him.

Quinn and MacCready moved to join the rest of the group, but while MacCready sat down and picked up another drink, Quinn hesitated. Preston—who normally liked to be in the thick of things so long as the smoke wasn’t too heavy—was absent. She glanced around, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Danse was staring at her again, but Quinn ignored him. Her tiredness was so great she could no longer control her irritability. He didn’t deserve her ire—a fact she knew, and which only served to rankle her further.

Quinn waited until the chatter started up again—Piper had launched into her latest evidence on the mayor of Diamond City being a synth, which earned her an uncomfortable look from Hancock—before slipping from the room to search for Preston.

She found him at the bottom of the spiral stairs, pouring over a set of ragged books, looking thoroughly worn out. Once glance at the Minuteman was enough to tell her she was about to get an earful of worries again. She didn’t mind—it gave her a sense of purpose like no other, and she was in short supply of that at the moment.

“Hey,” Quinn said, dropping down next to him.

“Hey,” Preston replied, not looking up at her. He shifted slightly, moving his book out of the shadow she had thrown onto the pages.

“What you up to? Not in the mood for socialising?”

“No.”

Quinn frowned. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes.” He rubbed at his eyes, and even in the dim light, Quinn could see the shadows beneath them. Part of her wanted to ask if he had slept that night, but the word _‘hypocrite’_ hissed through her head.

Instead, Quinn settled for, “Seems to me like something’s up. Not like you to shut yourself away, giving one word answers. What’s wrong?”

Preston paused and then sighed heavily. He straightened up, closing his book, and Quinn saw by the cover that it was a first aid manual. Then he looked at her, and the distress in his eyes was overwhelming.

“At 35 Court,” he said, his fingers tightening on the book, “I tried to help MacCready, but I couldn’t. If Danse hadn’t been there, MacCready could have been in serious trouble.”

Quinn waited, wondering what point Preston was trying to make.

“I should have _known_ how to help him,” Preston said, scowling. Quinn felt unnerved; anger didn’t suit his gentle face. “I should have _known_ what to do, but I had no idea. I was...I _am_ ignorant.” He held up the book. “Indirect pressure is one of the most basic parts of medical treatment. Basic, and I didn’t know it.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“No, I’m not.” He tossed the book away with a look of disgust. “I’ve been with the Minutemen for years, and not once was I taught basic medical skills. _‘Take a stimpak and patch them up. If they die, it’s not your fault. You’re not a doctor; nothing more you could have done.’_ That’s what I knew. That’s what I believed.

“I once overheard Danse say that the Minutemen were just civilians in uniform, masquerading as a militia. It annoyed me; I thought he was being unfair.”

Preston’s scowl crumpled into despair and he took off his hat, putting his head in his hands. “He was right. We’re just civilians. I’m just a civilian pretending to be a soldier. _Pretending_ to help people. I can’t help anyone. How many people did I kill in Quincy because I didn’t know how to treat their wounds properly?”

“None,” a familiar voice said.

Both Quinn and Preston looked up to see Danse stood halfway down the spiral stairs, leaning on the banister as he frowned at them.

Preston went scarlet and jumped to his feet, mumbling excuses to leave.

“Stay where you are,” Danse ordered.

To Quinn’s greatest surprise, Preston obeyed, rooted to the spot as he stared up at Danse, who made his way down the stairs, shaking his head.

Danse picked up the book that Preston had thrown to the floor and said, “Their deaths are not your fault, because you didn’t know any better. But now you do. This is your chance to learn from the past and do right for the people you serve, whether you’re a soldier or a civilian.”

_Maybe he took Carson’s words to heart,_ Quinn thought as she watched him thrust the book into Preston’s hands. This was certainly a far cry away from his usual guilt over his old team members. But then again, whether Danse believed it or not was irrelevant: it was what Preston needed to hear.

Preston gave a small, muted nod. “But there’s so much to learn, to take in. I don’t know where to begin.” He gave Danse a half hopeful look.

Danse frowned, considering the Minuteman for a moment, and then nodded. “If it’s guidance you need, I can show you ropes.” He gestured to the exit.

Preston looked at the door and then down at the book, before his expression shifted to hard determination as he nodded again. “Lead the way.”

Danse gave a noise of approval and turned to Quinn. “You’re coming back with us.”

Anger flared up within her. “You don’t decide what I—”

“This is not a debate,” he interrupted. “You’ve not been yourself lately and you’re not sleeping. We’re going back to the hotel.”

Preston glanced from one to the other, a sheepish expression on his face.

Fury pulsed through her, burning under her skin as she trembled on the spot. He didn’t fucking order her around, not outside of work. He didn’t—

But the rage disappeared almost at once as she met Danse’s gaze. He was staring at her, not with stubbornness or annoyance, or even spite.

Fear. He was looking at her with _fear._

She could see the desperation creeping into his face, urging her to back down. Whatever was bothering him, he wasn’t going without her, no matter what she did or said.

The exhaustion hit Quinn in full force and the fight left her. She didn’t have the energy to bicker with him, or the strength to push him away if he took her back to the hotel room by force.

“Fine,” she sighed, her voice weighed with resignation. “Have it your way.”

She shuffled past both men, not bothering to turn around as they followed. But as they walked through Goodneighbor, Quinn slowed, dragging her heavy feet, and they quickly overtook her. As they walked in front of her, Quinn noticed the worried glances Danse kept throwing, his eyes darting up and down, studying her. The truth finally dawned on Quinn.

_He’s afraid to leave me alone._

* * *

Begging was not something that Quinn did lightly, but she could see no other way out of her predicament.

Preston and Danse had spent hours going over the first aid guide, Danse showing Preston everything he knew, pointing out every little detail in the damaged, stained pages while Quinn paced around the room like a caged deathclaw. Both men had watched her with concern, but when they asked if she was alright, she had snapped so viciously at them they hadn’t asked again.

The tiredness was ruining her. Her limbs were lead, dragging her body deep into the ground as she fought to stay afloat. The headache cut through her skull like a saw, and her dry, stinging eyes battled continuously with her to close. She felt sick, and dark, paranoid thoughts darted around her mind like flies on a festering corpse. Her lips trembled as the tears threatened to fall, the world swaying from side to side as she walked, until all she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and die.

_Can’t sleep. Danse...no. Can’t do it._

Eventually, Preston had left, looking as if he had wanted to stay. Quinn heard a brief, quiet discussion at the door between civilian and soldier, though she only caught the words, _“...I’m going to try to convince her…”_

Like hell he would convince her. Not when there was so much at stake.

“Had a nice little chat behind my back with Preston?” she spat as Danse returned. He didn’t rise to her barbs, but took her by the shoulders, clamping down as she briefly struggled against him, and frogmarched her across the room, forcing her to stand in front of a cracked mirror on the wall.

“Look at what you’re doing to yourself,” he said gently.

Quinn looked.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Haggard and pale, this gaunt imitation of herself could barely stand, let alone function. Quinn felt Danse’s hands slide away as she reached over and touched the crack in the glass that streaked across the intruder’s face. For a second, she was back in her dream, watching Nate as she tried to break her way out. Then the vision faded, and all that remained was Danse.

He met her eye in the reflection. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Quinn said nothing. After a few seconds of silence, he tried again.

“I understand you might not trust me right now, what with the truth of my real identity—"

“What?” she said at once, her eyes widening. The stranger in the mirror mimicked her.

Danse grimaced. “My...my being a synth. I know this has likely damaged your trust in me, and I don’t blame you for that, but I can’t let you continue with this.”

Quinn turned away from the mirror to look at him fully, her mouth open in alarm. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I trust you! Why would you think like that?”

He frowned, clearly confused. “You...you won’t sleep and you won’t tell me why. You’re hiding things from me. I can _tell_ you’re uncomfortable. The only thing that’s changed recently is learning what I am. Or that’s the only thing I can think of, at any rate.”

“What? No!” Quinn gestured to herself, horrified. “This has nothing to do with you being a synth!”

“Then _what?”_

“I...I can’t say.”

Danse groaned with frustration. “This is your reckless behaviour all over again. You gave me a speech about how I need to talk to you and confide in you. I can’t do that if you won’t show confidence in me, Quinn.”

“I have confidence in you,” she replied, dismay threatening to swallow her. He thought this was because of _him._ “I do. I just...I can’t talk about this with you.”

She could feel his hurt as she watched him deflate, becoming small and uncertain again.

“Alright.” He gave a long, slow sigh, closing his eyes as he pressed his thumb into his forehead. “I’m sorry for pushing you. I’ll drop it if you just sleep. That’s all I’m asking. Get some sleep.”

“No.”

“Goddamn it, Quinn!” The authority of his old rank returned with a vengeance, throwing off the shackles of his exile as he loomed over her. “You gave me the third degree when I did this, and rightly so, but at least I offered a _reason_ for it. If you can’t do me the courtesy of explaining what’s wrong, then that’s your business, but you need to _sleep._ And I won’t drop this until you do.”

The fire in his eyes told her he meant every word, and she felt panic consume her.

Quinn hated begging, but there was no other way.

“Please,” she whispered hugging herself as she locked eyes with him. “Please, don’t make me sleep. _Please.”_

His annoyance crumbled into worry at once. “Let me _help_ you.”

“God, this is…this isn’t about _me!”_ Quinn shook her head and began pacing waving her arms as she ignored the world spinning around her. “I don’t want it to be about me! I’m fine! Fucking fantastic! I don’t want everything that’s happened to you to be made _about me!_ You’re the one who’s suffering, the one who’s been treated like _shit_ by the people you’ve given everything to! It’s not right! It’s not—"

Everything lurched forward as Quinn lost her footing, stumbling and crashing into the desk, sending tools and weapon parts scattering.

As she expected, he was at her side in an instant, helping her to her feet and guiding her to the bed. He sat down next to her, brow furrowed as he stared at the floor. When he spoke, his words were quiet and slow, articulated with the greatest of care.

“I would never think you’re trying to overshadow my troubles with your own.” He met her eye. “But I think we both know by now that what’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. You came for me when no one else would. You risked your life so I could keep my own. This incident...you’ve helped me carry the burden when you didn’t have to. And if you have to shoulder my troubles, then I will shoulder yours.”

He waited patiently for her response, and Quinn realised the game was up. She had nowhere else to hide, nowhere left to run. If she continued to avoid his questions, he would really believe that it was because of him. Quinn bit her finger, feeling the tight panic welling up inside of her again, and opened the compartment on her Pip-Boy where Danse’s tape lay. She handed it to him without comment.

He took it off her, confused for a moment. Then as his fingers ran over the remains of the peeled off label, his face paled. Danse jumped to his feet, his knuckles white as he clutched at the tape, and walked away for a few steps, staring at it, before turning back to her.

“Did you…?” he asked.

Quinn nodded, slowly standing up. “Your—"

Danse flung the tape aside, and it bounced off the wall with a _clack_ as he snarled, “You had no right to listen to that!”

His expression was downright frightening, and Quinn hesitated, feeling a prickle of dread in her stomach. But then she remembered Nate, with his terrible mood swings and her meekness towards them. Her mettle returned with a surge of indignation.

Like hell she would let _that_ happen again.

Looking Danse square in the eye, she gave him her best glare as she hissed, “Then you shouldn’t have fucking left it lying around!”

He flinched, and the redness in his cheeks darkened. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—you shouldn’t have…” His voice trailed off, his anger slowly shifting into a long, uncomfortable silence as gaze returned to the floor. Eventually, Danse’s shoulders slumped and he dropped back down onto the bed. “I...I didn’t think. Forgot about it. The last week…”

Danse leaned forward, clutching his head in his hands. “The last week has been a blur.” He let go of his head and sat up straight, sighing, before quietly asking, “Is this why you won’t sleep?”

Quinn hesitated and then nodded. “It’s…” She twisted her fingers together, trying to find the words. “I’m scared that if I don’t keep an eye on you, you’ll go through with it. And I can’t look out for you while I’m…”

“That is the stupidest, most irrational thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, glancing up at her.

Despite herself, Quinn rolled her eyes. “Don’t hold back, Danse. Tell me how you _really_ feel.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, he frowned and then said, “I mean it. How did you expect this to end, Quinn? Or did you not bother to consider that far ahead? This isn’t something you can sustain.”

“What, like you?”

“Yes, exactly like me,” he snapped, and Quinn felt guilty for her low blow. Danse shook his head. “You had a damn panic attack today, but you won’t tell me what it was. At first I thought it was to do with Nate and Shaun, but now I’m not so sure. What did you see?”

He wasn’t going to let this drop until she told the truth. Preparing for the dismay that would likely follow, Quinn took a deep breath and relayed her dream back to him. Somehow she made it through without cracking, though she felt a lump in her throat and shivers in her spine.

Danse winced, his face paling. Then to her greatest surprise, he scowled. “You’ve spent months trying to make me see reason over my nightmares, but when you suffer the same thing you choose to _hide_ it from me?”

“I didn’t want to make you feel any worse. I didn’t want to make this entire shitstorm about me.” Quinn felt like a broken record, repeating the same meaningless insistences over and over again, but he needed to understand.

There was a long silence. Then Danse started to talk.

Quinn stood and listened as he detailed everything that he saw when he closed his eyes, a ruinous haze of the past, his very worst memories fused into one.

The bodies of those that had died under his command, and their accusing stares. The ruins of the Capital Wasteland, the contempt of Krieg, and the centrepiece: Cutler, spotlighted in an abandoned Rivet City.

“I’m back in D.C. on the scouting mission, with Marguerie and the others.” Danse glared down at his hands as he dug his nails into his palms. “I’m looking for him. Hoping he’s still alive. _Praying_ for it. And then I see him on the floor, and I’m not sure if he’s dead, and I—”

Danse broke off, his fingers digging into his forehead as he trembled.

Quinn didn’t know what to say. She had never heard him talk so freely about his nightmares before, but it was like someone had just lit up a darkened room, revealing every lurking demon. He had always said his dreams were about Cutler, but never mentioned their vividness before.

“I go to help, and I see that he’s alive, and I think everything will be alright...but when I reach him, I know I have to kill him, but I can’t see why. Part of me doubts at just blindly following orders. Part of me wants to let him go. I hesitate...and then he’s a mutant, pinning me to the floor. Strangling me.”

“Danse…” Quinn moved over to the bed and sat down next to him.

“And yet I still can’t kill him,” Danse said bitterly, clenching his fists. “I know what he is, but I don’t finish him off.”

“Is that how it happened?”

“Almost,” he replied, closing his eyes and wiping the sweat off his face. “When we reached the hive, I picked Cutler out—saw the scraps of his uniform and his dog tags cutting into his neck. I lost my head. He bolted and I ran after him, abandoning the people I was _supposed_ to be leading. Thank God Marguerie knows how to keep her cool.”

“And then?” Quinn prompted.

“And then...he outmanoeuvred me.” Danse scowled. “A super mutant got the better of me because _I_ was letting my emotions overrule my training. Took me by surprise and slammed me to the floor. Got his fingers under my helmet, where the undermesh meets the neck joint.”

Quinn had sudden visions of the super mutant that had attacked her in the stairwell when they had been trying to rescue Kapraski. Danse’s haunted expression as he’d pulled the mutant off her was as clear as day.

“How did you escape?” she said, pushing the visions away.

“Common sense kicked in at the last second, and I realised he was beyond help.” Danse slowly opened his eyes again. “I had a sidearm to hand. I shot him.”

The monotone quality of his voice said it all. He was weary of this memory.

Quinn regarded him for a moment, watching as he stared blankly ahead, and then jumped as his head snapped to look at her.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m telling you this.”

“No.” She shrugged. “I figured you’ve been bottling this up for a long time and needed to talk about it.”

“I’m telling you because you need to see what you are to me.”

Quinn blinked. “I...I don’t understand.”

“I know.” Danse sighed. “This is hard to work through—the whole thing is a mess. Just give me a moment to try and explain.” He frowned. “Do you remember when you asked me what I saw in the church in the Glowing Sea?”

Quinn cast her mind back to the Prydwen, when they had been alone in Danse’s room.

_“What did you see?” she asked quietly._

_“I...I don’t know. I only remember parts of it. Just...what I normally dream about. Cutler. I go to help him, but he’s not Cutler anymore, he’s...and then…” He shook his head. “But this time it was different. It wasn’t Cutler, it was…” Danse looked at Quinn for a moment and then dropped his gaze. “It doesn’t matter.”_

“Yeah,” Quinn said, still confused. “You said it was like your normal dreams, but then it changed into something else.”

“I have seen Cutler in my sleep almost every night without fail since his death,” Danse said, tapping his hands nervously on his knees, avoiding her eye. “You know how close we were—what he meant to me. The dreams always follow a similar pattern, and no one has ever taken his place. Until the episode in the Glowing Church.”

The scene on the Prydwen flashed through her head again, and suddenly Quinn understood.

_“It wasn’t Cutler, it was…” Danse looked at Quinn for a moment and then dropped his gaze._

“I saw you. You were lying where his body should have been.” Danse continued to look anywhere but at Quinn. “At the time I thought it was because of your stupid, risk-taking behaviour—you did cause that incident—and it never happened again. But after the confrontation with Maxson…” He chewed his lip. “I’ve seen you a few times since. Not every night, but enough to unsettle me.”

Quinn felt uncomfortable at this confession, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was knowing she was the source of his misery. “I don’t see what this has to do with—"

“You mean...you mean a lot to me, Quinn. More than I could adequately describe.” He gave her a weak smile. “When I was in the bunker, when I made that tape...I thought I’d lost everything: my integrity, my friends, my purpose...you.” He paused, going pink. “But you not only proved that you’d stand by me, you showed me that I wasn’t a traitor. I wouldn’t throw away everything you’ve given me so carelessly. I wouldn’t put you through that.”

“But…” Quinn licked her lips, looking for a hole in his argument just so he could prove her wrong, “but you’ve been so distant…”

Danse nodded. “I have. I won’t lie—this is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. Some days are harder than others, and I suspect it will be like that for a long while. But you’ve taken the time to show me that I may have a future worth fighting for. And while I don’t quite believe it yet, I’m getting there. The man in that tape isn’t me, because he had no hope...and I have plenty.”

Quinn’s lip trembled as his smiled broadened into something warm and genuine, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder as her hands clung at his clothes. Danse hesitated for a moment before turning his body to face her as he placed a warm hand on her back.

“Will you sleep?” he asked her gently.

Quinn didn’t answer immediately, the images of her last nightmare running through her mind. But then they were banished as a realisation dawned on her. For the first time since this fiasco had begun, Danse had referred to himself as a man.

Still, she needed her reassurances. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Another pause. Then she nodded. “Alright.”

Danse sighed with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> Reminder: my beta will be on holiday between the 4th and 12th of August, so there will be no chapter on the weekend during those dates (6/7th) and potentially the weekend after (13/14th).
> 
> However, I may post some drabbles to fill the gap. We’ll see. ;)


	42. Way Back Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title:
> 
> “Put That Quinn Back Where She Came From (Or So Help Me)”

“You need to go back.”

Quinn rolled her eyes at Danse and forged ahead, ducking past some dead weeds as she scoured the landscape. She had been on edge ever since they’d left Goodneighbor that morning, claiming that the mismatched duo of her and someone wearing the _X-01_ series would be enough to draw the attention of any passing Brotherhood patrols.

Danse disagreed, but there was no arguing with her. If anything, he was more concerned that she seemed  unwilling to follow Maxson’s last orders and return to the Prydwen, doing everything from changing the subject to outright ignoring him to avoid the discussion.

“Quinn,” he said, stomping to catch up with her.

“Mmm?” Quinn replied, not looking at him. She crouched down, staring intently at the bunker, and then lowered her weapon. “I think it’s clear.”

_“Quinn.”_

_“What?”_

“Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m asking, Quinn.” He loomed over her in his power armour, a move that usually worked well in getting what he wanted.

Quinn stared up at him, unimpressed.

Danse sighed. “You need to go back and help the Brotherhood.”

“No, I don’t.” Quinn straightened up and walked down the hill to the bunker’s entrance, edging inside and checking the corners, gun barrel first.

“Yes, you _do.”_

“For the love of— _why?”_ She lowered her weapon and hit the elevator button with her fist, glaring at him. “Why do I need to go back there? Why would I _want_ to go back there? They tried to kill you—turned on you without even _attempting_ to find out your side of the story first. Why would I stay with a group that would just as easily throw me to the wolves as well?”

_Because you’re human. Because you matter to them,_ he wanted to say. But Danse knew that would be the foothold Quinn needed to make the argument about him. So instead he said, “Because your absence would be suspect. Whether you know it or not, you’ve provided a great deal for the Brotherhood. Not only that, but your friends would want to know what happened to you, the same way I wanted to know what happened to Cutler.”

He paused as he followed her into the elevator, a lump in his throat, and shook his head. “Maxson could be forced into an investigation of your whereabouts, especially considering how the Prydwen is in the Commonwealth. If they find me, both you _and_ Maxson could be at risk—"

“After everything that’s happened, you still care about him?” Quinn said incredulously, lowering her gun.

Danse took his helmet off and nodded. “Some things won’t ever change, Quinn.”

Quinn opened her mouth as the elevator pinged and the doors slid open, an angry look on her face. Perhaps she was about to call him an idiot. Danse would never know, because at that precise moment, a shrill voice cut through the still air of the bunker.

_“Sir?”_

Quinn and Danse spun on the spot to see Haylen standing near the old terminal, eyes wide, her mouth trembling.

Danse’s stomach dropped. He’d intended to let her know he was still alive, but with the events of the last week or so, Haylen had completely slipped his mind. He stepped out of the elevator, his helmet tucked under one arm as he struggled to think what to say next.

Haylen didn’t give him the chance. She flew across the room, her body hitting him with a dull thud as she clung to his armour. Danse tried to remember what he’d done last time this had occurred, but the helmet under his arm prevented him from holding her. Feeling somewhat awkward, he raised a steel-plated hand and patted her carefully on the back.

After a few minutes, Haylen sniffled, “Maxson said you were dead. Said _she’d_ killed you.” She gave Quinn a small nod.

“Quite the opposite,” Danse replied, and he smiled as Haylen glanced up at him. “I wouldn’t be standing here without her.”

Haylen let go of him and wiped her eyes, before considering Quinn. Then she gave a smile of her own as she said, “Thank you. Thank you for listening to me.”

Quinn shook her head. “I wasn’t gonna do it in the first place. I just couldn’t openly say so on the Prydwen.”

Haylen nodded, but Danse just felt confused. He was missing something here, but before he could dwell on it, she said, “When Maxson gave his story, I feared the worst. But when Quinn didn’t come back either, I began to wonder. So I went looking for answers.”

Haylen gestured to the newly decorated bunker. “Seeing it like this gave me some hope, but it wasn’t until just now that I…”

“How are things on the Prydwen?” Quinn asked, shouldering her rifle and taking a seat at the terminal desk.

“Chaotic. People are starting to whisper because you haven’t returned. Maxson’s filtered through a rumour that you’ve gone on another mission for him, but because he went after Danse personally, people are...talking.”

Danse shot Quinn an angry look. “You need to go back.”

Quinn snorted. “For Maxson? He can burn for all I care.”

“If it had been anyone else in command, both of us would be dead,” Danse snapped. “I don’t think you realise the leniency he showed over this. Or the danger he’s put himself in by letting me live.”

“He’s the Elder! What possible danger could he be in?”

“He’s the Elder of the Eastern chapter of the Brotherhood,” said Haylen quietly. “Not the entire order. He holds a lot of sway, but he’s always at odds with the Elders of the West Coast. If word got out that he let Danse live, not only would there be a risk of a revolt within our own ranks, but the West itself could retaliate...and it might not just be Maxson who is punished.”

Quinn said nothing for a few moments, staring at the floor. Then she slammed her fist down on the terminal keyboard. “Fuck!”

She stood up, kicking her chair over and strode across the room, before saying again, “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck _fuck!”_

“It’s not ideal, I know—" Haylen began, but Quinn interrupted her.

“Of course it’s not fucking ideal! It’s about as far from ideal as it could possibly get!” Quinn spat, but she paused when she saw the ugly look Danse was giving her. He glared at her for a few seconds longer. Whatever the situation, Haylen didn’t deserve to be spoken to like that.

Quinn sighed. “Sorry, Haylen. I shouldn’t have...sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Haylen replied lightly, though she looked alarmed. “But I agree with Paladin Danse. The next step is to show willingness to Maxson and take things from there.”

Danse winced at his old title. “Haylen, just...just call me Danse.”

Haylen blinked and then flushed. “Sorry, sir—I mean—sorry, Danse.” She paused. “God, that sounds weird.”

Danse laughed and the awkward spell was broken. He turned back to Quinn, and despite the seriousness of their conversation, had to bite back a smirk. She was pulling a face like a molerat eating a tato.

“I don’t want to leave you here on your own,” she said, folding her arms. “After everything that’s happened—"

“We’ve been over this,” Danse said with an edge of exasperation. “I’m fine. I know how to look after myself.”

“But who knows how long I’ll be gone—"

“I’ll stay for a while,” Haylen chipped in brightly. “Help you tidy up the place a bit more and drop in when I can.” She turned to Quinn. “I’ll give him company. Don’t worry.”

Danse didn’t like them talking as if he wasn’t there, but if it made Quinn go back, he could tolerate it. He fixed Quinn with a determined stare and nodded. “I’ll be alright. But you need to return to the Prydwen.”

Quinn glanced from him to Haylen and back again, chewing her lip. Then after a few seconds, she sighed.

“Fine.” She marched across the room, picked up a rucksack, and began stuffing it full of ammo.

“Fine,” she repeated, zipping open one of its pockets and jamming in a handful of stimpaks from the nearby shelf. When it was full, she shut it again, strode over to her armour, and forced the bag inside a gap on the inside after a brief, but fierce, struggle. Quinn followed, sealing the armour behind her and turning to Danse, picking her helmet up off the table.

“I didn’t mean you had to go right now,” he said quickly, feeling a jolt of anxiety. Had he come across the wrong way?

Quinn shook her head. “I know, but…” She gave him a small smile to show she wasn’t angry at him, and then put her helmet on. “If things with Maxson are riding on me showing my face on the ship, then I better get back and nip things in the bud before they escalate. I’m not letting all my hard work be for nothing.”

With that, she strode over to the elevator and ducked inside, hitting the button to take her back up to the surface.

“Stay safe,” she said as the doors shut, blocking her from view.

Danse waited until the whir of the elevator faded away, before saying quietly, “You too.”

Haylen’s knuckles rapped against his armour, making him jump. He glanced down at her and saw she was smiling.

“I’d heard some of the rumours about you and the vault dweller at the police station, but I didn’t believe them.” She grinned. “Always thought you were too married to the job.”

“I didn’t realise the rumours had carried that far,” Danse said airily, though his cheeks felt hot. “Who told you?”

“Rhys.” Her grin widened. “He likes to pretend he’s the dedicated soldier, but he’s such a gossip.”

Despite himself, Danse smirked back. Rhys had always been enthusiastic when it came to the Brotherhood. He reminded Danse of himself, when he had been younger.

Danse paused, a sudden pain in his head. What concept did he have of being younger? For all he knew, his entire past was a fabrication, and he had replaced the original Danse at the whim of the Institute. Quinn had insisted that couldn’t be true, given him countless reasons why he was an original and not a spy, and yet...

Perhaps Haylen took his silence for pining, because she suddenly said, “You care about her, don’t you?”

Danse thought about the sleepless night Quinn had endured, tossing and turning in their room in the Hotel Rexford, before waking up and calling his name. Her eyes, blank and caught in the haze of sleep, would meet his, and then they would relax, her head hitting the pillow again once she had seen Danse beside her. He would watch over her until the cycle repeated, bitter in the knowledge that he was the cause.

“Danse?”

Danse returned to earth with a bump and gave Haylen an abrupt nod. “I do.”

He set his helmet down on the table and walked over to the power armour station, exiting his suit with some difficulty. The _X-01_ series was slightly taller than his old armour, and he was still adjusting to the differences.

Although he tried his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed Haylen’s watching eyes, Danse could feel that the conversation with her wasn’t over. It didn’t matter. Discussions about Quinn were far outside of his comfort zone, even when the other participant was a friend. Especially when that other person was Quinn herself. Clearing his throat, Danse picked up his screwdriver from a shelf and studied his new power armour.

“It’s a shame the Brotherhood never managed to acquire the _X-01_ series,” Danse said, more to himself than to Haylen. “The differences between the _T-60_ series and this are staggering.”

Haylen didn’t reply, and after a few awkward moments of silence, Danse gave in. He turned to her to find her standing with her arms folded, a knowing look on her face.

“What?”

Haylen hesitated, chewing her lip anxiously, and then gave a weak shrug. “I just...it seems that...well, maybe...do you...do you love...?” She stopped, her face bright red, and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Sorry, sir.”

Danse stared at Haylen for a beat, the question throwing him off guard. Then he turned back to his armour and began tinkering in silence, lifting up the plating and inspecting the wiring underneath. The quiet in the room grew, but Danse refused to buckle again.

Eventually, he heard approaching footsteps and he tensed, waiting for her to press on the subject. Instead, Haylen walked over to the shelves, picking up an old _T-60_ chest mod.

“I know a little bit about the _X-01,”_ she said, turning the component over in her hands. “With a bit of work, I think we can adapt the earlier power armour models to fit this one. Any upgrades in particular you’re thinking of?”

Danse stared down at the part in her hand, and shot her a grateful look. She smiled and held it out to him, her cheeks still tinged with red.

He took it, surveyed it for a moment, and then said, “I have a few ideas.”

* * *

“Reporting as ordered, Elder.”

“You took your time,” Maxson snapped, his eyes twisted into a cold, sharp glare. Everything about his posture suggested a heightened level of stress, and though Quinn could feel his anger, she also sensed the relief, hidden just out of sight.

“You told me to say my goodbyes, sir,” Quinn said, holding her ground. “I wanted to ensure everything was dealt with first.”

Maxson considered her for a moment and then nodded. “Before we continue, I want to make one thing clear.” He shot a look down the corridor, towards the guards that flanked his office, and lowered his voice. “This conversation will be the last time we speak about Danse. As far as the Brotherhood of Steel is concerned, he’s dead. Do you understand?”

“What story did you give them?”

“That Danse had already been dealt with by the time I arrived. That the remains were incinerated afterwards, to make sure the job was done. This is the story you will tell too, if anyone asks. Now I say it again: do you understand?”

“Understood.”

The relief broke through fully, and his face relaxed, his voice returning to its normal volume. “Good. Of course, Danse’s execution creates a missing link in our chain of command.”

Quinn froze. Was he saying what she thought…?

He was.

“That _traitor_ held quite an important position with us. I’m certain that you’ll make a fine replacement. His quarters and all his possessions are now yours, including his personal suit of power armour. Congratulations, Paladin.”

_Paladin._

The revulsion was almost too much to bear. Maxson must have planned for this, must have meant to make her Danse’s successor, even before Maxson had decided to let him go. As far as the Brotherhood was concerned, the man wasn’t even cold in his grave before his murderer leapt into his place.

“I’m honoured, Elder,” Quinn said, surprised that she was managing to keep her voice steady. “Though I have to ask...why me when there are so many more experienced soldiers?”

They both knew what she really meant.

_Why me after I fought for Danse to live?_

Maxson looked as if he was asking himself the same question. Eventually, he said, “A Brotherhood of Steel paladin is the symbol of our organisation: a living embodiment of our morals and our code.”

_Well, you’ve picked the wrong fucking person then,_ thought Quinn. But she let him talk.

“But it is of my personal opinion, that while the doctrine of the Brotherhood encompasses all, a good paladin still shows the capacity for compassion and independent thought. My word is final, but that does not mean I want mindless drones to take charge of my soldiers. The ability to lead does not come from blind obedience.

“You’ve earned this by your own actions. By proving that whatever your beliefs, you put the best interests of the people around you at the forefront of your mind. The same way your predecessor did...as did mine.”

There was a long silence. Maxson stared at her intently, and she could feel him willing her to understand. Quinn fumbled at her lessons with Stephen Cooper, the echoes of Owyn Lyons ringing around her head. But then it was gone, and she was left more confused than ever.

“I trust you won’t disappoint your new charges...or me.” His face returned to its usual serious mask. “In any event, we still have the Institute to contend with and a lot of work to do before we can begin our final assault. Familiarise yourself with your new duties. You’ll have work soon enough. Ad Victoriam, Paladin.”

“Ad Victoriam, sir,” Quinn said, saluting him. She left as quickly as possible, glad to be away from the wretched man. After everything Danse had done for him, this was the way he was repaid? Everything he owned, everything he was, pawned off to his successor before the dust had settled on the grave of his memory.

Quinn shook her head, the insult bitter in her mouth. Slowly she made her way to the last remaining piece of his life on the ship.

The power armour station floor was empty, Ingram and all her staff still working on Liberty Prime at the airport below. Thankful for the privacy, Quinn approached Danse’s suit, which was stood silent and foreboding in the abandoned workshop space.

She remembered the first day she had met him, a hulking figure of dark grey and red steel, throwing himself in front of Rhys to protect his injured squad mate from a charging ghoul. Quinn had nearly left them to their fate. Nick had mentioned once or twice that the Brotherhood didn’t like synths, and they were only there to collect a holotape about Eddie Winters. If the Brotherhood had died in the attack, Nick and Quinn could have gotten the tapes, no problem. But then her morals kicked in, and Quinn had stepped in to help, ordering Nick to wait while she talked the Brotherhood around.

Quinn placed a hand on the metal chest place of the armour, her throat tight, the metal cool beneath her fingers. How things had changed...

Only one thing consoled her: Danse would be pleased that she was the one to take his place. Or at least, he would be less distressed than if it was anyone else.

Trying not to dwell on the idea of giving him this news, Quinn headed towards the sickbay: the one place on the ship guaranteed to hold Carson.

To her greatest surprise, Carson was not there.

Instead, she was greeted by the sight of Kapraski, leaning heavily on an exhausted looking Casey, a battered crutch wedged under his left armpit. The mess of the sickbay had intensified since her last visit, empty syringes of med-x scattered amongst piles of papers and open folders. In the corner sat Cade, his head tilted against the back of his chair, mouth hanging open as he snored softly.

Casey shot Quinn a guilty look and then glanced at Kapraski. “Tom, maybe we should take a break. You know Knight-Captain Cade won’t be happy if—"

“I don’t give a damn what Cade thinks,” Kapraski snapped, though he kept his volume low, his eyes briefly flicking towards the doctor. His skin was tinged grey, his hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. “You heard what Kells said. You know I have to get better.”

“I know,” Casey said softly, and Quinn was struck by how odd it was, seeing the scribe back to her old, gentle self, the ferocity of Boston long gone. Casey paused and then tried again. “Tom, there’s no rush. Kells’ offer still stands. You have all the time in the wor—"

“I want to get better _now,”_ Kapraski snarled.

Quinn was taken aback. She had never thought she’d meet a mellower, kinder person than Preston Garvey until she had encountered Kapraski. Tall and stocky, he was an impressive figure, and yet held such a soft demeanour that he seemed almost out of place in a military organisation like the Brotherhood.

Now every trace of that pleasantness was gone, replaced by an ugly savagery that made him near unrecognisable.

Quinn turned to Casey, silently searching for answers. The scribe gave her a helpless look and then said, “Kells visited a few days ago, after Elder Maxson announced that Danse was dead. He told Tom that because he had shown great skill and bravery in landing the vertibird and ensuring everyone survived, he was being promoted to the rank of Lancer-Knight.”

“Congratulations!” Quinn said, though she was now even more perplexed. Why had such good news reduced Kapraski to this?

He answered the question for her immediately.

“When I’m back on my _feet_ again,” Kapraski said sourly, glaring down at his missing leg. “I need to get better, and the quicker I can do that, the quicker I can return to work.”

“Cade told him that these things take time,” Casey went on, shifting her position under Kapraski’s weight. “But Tom’s adamant that he can do more...even without Cade knowing.”

“And you’re helping him,” Quinn said pointedly. Casey flushed a dark shade of red.

“She doesn’t have to,” Kapraski said, glaring at Quinn. “I’m not making her help me.”

_“She_ knows you’ll try to do it yourself if _she_ isn’t here,” Casey retorted. _“She_ knows you’ll just hurt yourself even more if left on your own.”

“Oh, give it a rest.”

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Quinn fixed Kapraski with her best scowl, and for a moment, she thought he would back down. Then he bristled with indignation.

“Says who?”

“Says the new paladin aboard this ship, that’s who.” Quinn hadn’t intended to pull rank so quickly, but given the way the conversation was heading… “So button it and sit your ass back down in your bed before you give yourself another injury.”

Both Kapraski and Casey paled, their mouths falling open in unison at her words. There was a long silence as the news sunk in.

Casey straightened up, muttering a hurried, _“Ma’am,”_ but Kapraski’s eyes gleamed with spite, as if looking for a weak spot in her armour. He quickly found it.

“You only got that position because you killed Danse,” he snapped, his mouth twisting with malice. “After everything you said at Sanctuary, you just went and—"

_“Enough.”_

Everyone’s heads snapped in the direction of Cade, who sat up, his tired face radiating annoyance. All at once, Kapraski seemed to deflate.

“Knight-Captain, I—"

“I don’t want to hear it,” Cade interrupted, slowly getting to his feet and squaring up to Kapraski. Cade only came up to the other man’s chin, and yet Quinn could see he was a force to be reckoned with. Kapraski bowed his head, staring at the floor as Cade’s reprimand broke over him.

“She is your senior officer, Lancer. I don’t give a damn what your opinions are on her position—they are irrelevant. Elder Maxson has chosen her as his new paladin, and you will respect that to letter. _Do you understand?”_

“Yes, sir.”

“If it wasn’t for the fact I know this is your current condition talking and not you, I would be reporting you for insubordination. But if I hear you speak to her—or any other officer on this ship—in such a manner again, then amputated leg or not, you _will_ be disciplined. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cade said nothing for a moment, glowering at Kapraski, and then turned to Quinn. “Ma’am, you still hold authority over this situation. Do you want to take this further?”

Being called ‘ma’am’ by someone like Cade threw her, and she blinked stupidly for a few seconds before remembering she needed to answer. “Uh, no. That is sufficient, Knight-Captain.”

Cade nodded and snapped his head back towards Kapraski, who now looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. The doctor glared at him for a little longer, and then his face relaxed.

“Tom,” he said gently, “look at me.”

Reluctantly, Kapraski met his eye.

“All of us are here to help you. But to do that, we need you on our side. Get some rest and we’ll start your physiotherapy again in the morning. Alright?”

“Alright.” Kapraski hung his head again, and with Casey’s help, made it back over to his bed. The pain was clear in his face, which went from red to grey faster than Quinn thought possible. He stared at his stump and then said, “I’m sorry, Casey.”

“It’s fine—" Casey began, but he cut across her.

“No, it’s not fine.” Kapraski glanced up at her, sweat glistening on his face. “I’ve been awful to you, and to Liam, and I—"

His voice broke at the mention of Carson’s name, and he stopped, clenching his bed sheets in his fists before turning his attention to Quinn. “And I’m sorry Qui—ma’am. I didn’t mean what I said. I was just…”

“I know.” Quinn smiled at him. “I went through a similar sort of anger myself, not too long ago.”

Kapraski looked relieved, and Quinn continued to smile, but her heart felt heavy. Was that what people thought of her now? Would they hate her because they thought she had killed Danse? Think she had gotten the position only for his murder? Or—even worse—would they love her for it instead?

Casey and Quinn took their leave while Cade settled Kapraski down for the night. Only when Quinn was sure she was out of earshot of the open door of the infirmary, did she turn to Casey.

“How long has he been like that?”

“Since the last you were on the Prydwen, ma’am,” Casey replied with a long sigh. “Liam’s been getting the worst of it.”

“You don’t need to call me ma’am when it’s just us. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Oh.” Casey nodded and gave a slight smile. “Good. It’s a bit weird, y’know?”

“I know.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, while Casey frowned. Quinn got the impression that Casey wanted to say something, but didn’t know how. Quinn waited, unsure if she even wanted to hear it herself.

“Quinn…” Casey said after some time. “Um...about Paladin Danse…”

“Yes?”

“Did he...was he…?” She licked her lips nervously. “There are lots of rumours, but...I wanted to hear it from you, if you don’t mind talking about it.” Casey paused, and when Quinn nodded, she continued. “Danse...was he a traitor?”

Quinn sighed and shook her head. She could never say the truth, but maybe she could preserve some of his dignity. “No, I don’t think so. He didn’t know what he really was. He only found out when we did, panicked, and ran. When I caught up to him, he...he wanted to…”

_This is Danse, former Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, signing off.”_

“He wanted to go?” Casey finished for her. Quinn nodded, her throat tight. Casey thought on this for a moment and then said, “If it’s what he wanted, then you did the right thing.”

“Yeah.” Quinn stared ahead, the empty feeling returning. She had forced him to stay when he had wanted die. She had made him live. Had she done the right thing, or had she simply extended his suffering because she couldn’t let him go?

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Casey said quickly.

“Where’s Carson?” Quinn said, not caring that she was obviously changing the subject. “I thought he’d be glued to Kapraski’s side at this point.”

“Well, uh…” Casey coughed, looking uncomfortable. “They had a fight yesterday. A really big one. Or as big a fight as those two can have. It wasn’t loud or anything, but you could just see in Liam’s face that he’d had enough.”

Quinn blinked, shocked. “He’s had enough?”

“Tom’s been a little bit…” Casey gave a vague hand gesture, “difficult lately.”

“That’s a fucking understatement.”

“I know. You saw his behaviour. Triple it and that’s probably close to what Liam’s been putting up with.” Her brow furrowed with worry. “When he was first injured, he seemed to be handling his situation. But as time’s gone on, I think it’s finally sinking in that he’s lost a leg.

“Anything and everything has been Liam’s fault as far as Tom is concerned. I don’t think Tom really believes it, but Liam’s never been any good at handling conflict. He just kind of freezes up, so Tom’s been taking everything out on him. But after Kells’ visited, he just got...worse. And Liam stood up, said he was done with him, and walked out. He’s not been back to sickbay since.”

Quinn frowned. That _was_ worrying. “And how’s Kapraski taken it?”

“Acts like he doesn’t care, that he doesn’t need Liam, but…” Casey shrugged. “He’s lying. He knows he’s messed up big time, but he won’t admit it.”

Quinn gave a long, weary sigh. She couldn’t leave the Prydwen alone for five minutes without the place falling apart. She was tempted to ask about Rachel, but then decided that could wait until after she had resolved whatever was going on with Carson.

“I don’t understand, Casey.”

“Understand what?”

“Understand you.” The two women stopped and stared at each other at the edge of the sleeping area. “You were an absolute demon in Boston. Took down all those mutants without so much as blinking an eye. And you were prepared to...to do the worst if it looked like you were about to be captured. So why is it when you’re back here, you become so shy again? Why have you been letting Kapraski treat you like shit?”

“Because that person in Boston,” Casey replied quietly, “isn’t me. That person isn’t who I _want_ to be.” She hugged herself, looking small. “Some people thrive in that kind of environment and think good of themselves for it. I have the potential to thrive, but I don’t want to. I’ll survive when pushed, but that life...that coldness.” Casey met Quinn’s eye. “I won’t be her. Not when I don’t have to.”

Quinn considered this for a moment, and then nodded, pointing to the beds. “Get some sleep. You look like shit. I’ll go see if I can find Carson and sort this mess out.”

“I don’t know if—"

“Sleep,” she said again, and Casey hesitated.

“Alright. If I see him before you do, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him. ‘Night, Quinn.”

“Goodnight.” She watched Casey trail off towards the sleeping area, and then made her way towards the stairs, carrying Casey’s words with her. They gave her hope, in a strange sort of way. Casey was a survivor, through and through. But she hadn’t given up who she was either.

_Maybe I can come out of all this intact,_ Quinn thought as she climbed higher through the Prydwen. _Maybe I can keep some of who I used to be._

But that could wait. Right now, she had to find Carson. The only other haunt of his she knew of—besides the sickbay—was the top of the ship, the same place she had seen him first kiss Kapraski.

However, Carson was not there either. Frowning, Quinn paced up and down the walkways, scanning the rest of the ship for a glimpse of her friend, but he was nowhere to be seen. The last place she could think of was at the very bottom of the Prydwen. But there would be others down there, with their alcohol and their peep magazines, not at all to the taste of the quiet and sometimes shy knight.

Her worry mounted as she threw one desperate look around the top of the ship. After the way he had fought so hard to save Kapraski’s life, to the point of challenging Danse himself, Quinn couldn’t imagine Carson simply walking from his relationship. And yet his continued absence hung over her, causing prickles of anxiety across her skin. She had to find him and talk to him—he needed friends now more than ever.

Just as Quinn was making her way back to the stairs, she heard a clang and a panicked voice at the far end of the walkway she was standing on.

_“Just stay there. Stay! I’m getting help, alright? I’m getting Cade. I’m getting—no, don’t!”_

Another bang, and the voice became muffled again.

Instinct told her she had to move fast; Quinn turned around and sprinted the length of the ship to the source of the noise. The door leading to the outer deck loomed into view, the deck where Danse had taken her to listen to Nate’s tape so very long ago.

The muted voices grew louder again, and the door flew open, revealing a harassed Carson, fear written across every inch of his face. His eyes locked with Quinn’s, and he looked at her like she had descended down from the heavens above.

“Carson, are you—?” Quinn began, alarmed, but he cut across her.

“Quinn, help me!” He shot a glance over his shoulder through the open door, and turned back to her, his breathing sharp and shallow. “Help me. It’s...fuck…”

“What?” She tried to peer around him to see what was there, but Carson’s frame blocked the deck from view. Under the sound of the howling wind, Quinn could hear crying. “What’s wrong?”

Another frantic look behind him.

“Rachel. It’s Rachel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be delays next chapter. I have managed to hurt both my hands, which makes typing very painful. I’m currently resting my hands to see if they improve, but that’s putting a delay on writing. Even typing this up right now is causing me pain, so at the moment I won’t be able to write a full chapter.
> 
> Please check my ‘bnc updates’ tag on my tumblr to see if next chapter is definitely gonna be delayed or not.
> 
> Thank you for your patience with me, and I'm sorry for all the delays.
> 
> (Usual thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning!)


	43. Pack Mentality

Knight-Sergeant Marguerie’s life hung by a thread.

Rachel sat on the very edge of the deck, chest and face pressed against the safety rails, her arms and legs sticking through the bars, dangling in the open air. An open bottle of vodka was next to her, a third of it gone. On her other side, a small, leather-bound notebook, tied up with dirty string.

Behind Rachel—praying to every god she could think of, pre-war and wasteland—was Quinn. She watched as Rachel swayed from side to side, slipping precariously against the bars. One false move—one tiny mistake—and the knight-sergeant would go tumbling off the side of the ship.

“Rachel,” Quinn hissed as she edged towards her. “Rachel, for fuck’s sake, what are you _doing?_ _Rachel!”_

Rachel did not respond, clinging to the railings so hard her knuckles were white. Her sobs wracked her entire body, her shoulders hunched as she shivered and shook, babbling incoherently.

“How much has she had to drink?” Quinn said to Carson, not taking her eyes off the Knight-Sergeant.

“I don’t know,” he responded, sounding strained. “I only came up here to sort out my head and found her like this. But I haven’t seen any other bottles, so I think it’s just that bit of vodka.”

“Fucking lightweight,” Quinn muttered, rolling her eyes despite herself. Reaching the other woman, Quinn crouched down next to her, gingerly putting a hand on her shoulder. “Rachel, what’s wrong?”

Rachel’s puffy red eyes slowly opened, her eyelashes drenched with tears, and she stared ahead, her cries quieting to snuffles. Her trembling lips parted, drool dripping from her mouth and onto her lap, before she licked her lips and forced out, “He’s dead.”

Quinn blinked.  Was she referring to Danse?

“I…” She hesitated, bewildered. Did the knight-sergeant still care despite everything that had happened? “Who’s dead?”

“He’s dead,” Rachel repeated, squeezing her eyes shut again. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s _dead.”_

“That’s all I’ve been able to get out of her,” said Carson. “I don’t know if she means Paladin Danse or…”

“Who is dead, Rachel?” Quinn asked, firmer this time. “Who is dead? Tell me.”

Rachel gasped, tears leaking from the corners of her scrunched eyes, and she whispered, “George.”

She began sobbing again.

Quinn felt a chill sweep through her that had nothing to do with the wind. If this was true, if he had really died, then she knew all too well the pain of losing a husband. But for Rachel, this was something different...sharper, cut with remorse and revulsion. In that moment, Quinn wanted to hold her and never let go, but the dizzying drop was a nauseating reminder that they were too close to the brink.

“Rachel,” Quinn said gently. “Let go of the railings. Let’s go somewhere safe.”

Rachel shook her head, clinging harder to the bars as she wept. _“He’s dead.”_

“I know, and I know it hurts,” Quinn went on, putting her hand over the knight-sergeant’s and giving her fingers a little squeeze. “But I’m here for you, and so is Carson. And right now, we need you to let go. Think of your daughter—you’re all she has left. For her sake, let go.”

Rachel’s eyes opened again, and she mumbled something that Quinn didn’t catch. Then slowly she nodded, her hands falling down to her sides.

Quinn wrenched the knight-sergeant back, and as she did so, her foot caught the little book on the floor. Rachel watched as it skidded across the deck and pulled free of Quinn’s grasp with an almighty lurch. The knight-sergeant lunged forward, her scream of _“No!”_ sending a shiver down Quinn’s spine.

Only Carson’s quick reactions stopped Rachel from plummeting to her death. As her hands enclosed around her precious book, he grabbed the back of her uniform and hauled her away from the open air she had thrown herself into. Both of them toppled onto Quinn in a painful heap, knocking the bottle of vodka over in the process. Dazed, Quinn watched it roll away and disappear over the side, and thought hazily that it could have easily been Rachel instead.

There was an _“Oof!”,_ and then the weight disappeared. Quinn blinked and squinted up to see Carson supporting Rachel with a fair amount of difficulty.

“You gonna help or what?” he grunted, staggering sideways as Rachel clutched her book tight to her chest.

Quinn dragged herself to her feet, her body aching and leaned forward, holding out a hand. “Let me take the book for safekeeping.”

Rachel’s puffy eyes narrowed with suspicion as she sniffled and hiccupped, as if searching for some hidden agenda. Then she held it out. “You can be trusted.”

The second Quinn took the book, Rachel dissolved into tears again. It felt heavy and worn, the burden of years pressing down on her palms. She pocketed it when Carson made a loud, deliberate cough, and helped him half walk, half drag Rachel to the door.

“I didn’t even know she _had_ a husband,” Carson muttered, sagging under Rachel’s bulk.

“Was she like this when I was away?” Quinn asked, not listening.

“No.” He shook his head. “Once Maxson returned and her confinement was lifted, she went off with that sniper friend of yours. Quiet when she left, and even quieter when she came back. I saw less and less of her until eventually I stopped seeing her at all. I thought she’d gone out on another mission, but then…”

He tilted her head in Rachel’s direction. “Where the hell are we going to take her? And when we figure _that_ out, how we going to stop people noticing while we take her there? I don’t know about you, but I’m not willing to risk another ship-wide lockdown just to save face.”

“I’ll just have to deal with anyone who sees her later,” Quinn replied. “Long story short, I was promoted...so I think I know the perfect place.”

* * *

Rachel’s sobs seemed so much louder in the silence of Danse’s room. Thankfully, they hadn’t seen a soul on their way through the Prydwen, Quinn clamping a hand over Rachel’s mouth to stifle the noise. Carson had been reluctant to go in at first, until Quinn had told him that it belonged to her, and gave a brief explanation of her promotion. That had been enough for Carson, and now Rachel lay sprawling on Danse’s bed, deposited there by the two of them.

“Now what?” Carson asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Quinn folded her arms, wondering the same thing herself. She had no idea how Rachel had heard about the death of her husband—if he had even died at all—but she was beyond reason. Whatever had happened, she needed a doctor, and fast.

“Cade,” Quinn said with a sigh. She didn’t want to get Rachel into trouble, but there were few other options. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“No,” moaned Rachel. She tried to sit up and nearly toppled out of the bed, saved again by Carson’s quick reflexes. As he pushed her back onto the mattress, she grabbed his uniform and pulled him down towards her. “Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”

“We’re not leaving you,” Carson said, shooting Quinn an alarmed look. “Quinn is just—"

“Don’t _leave_ me. Please. Everybody leaves me. Everyone I care about...they go. They leave me alone. George and Danse and...and…” Rachel buried her head in Carson’s shoulder. “You’ll leave me too. I don’t want to be alone. Don’t leave me alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Carson said, rubbing her back with his hand. “We’re not going anywhere.”

But as Rachel continued to cry into him, he turned to Quinn and mouthed, _“Go.”_

Quinn nodded and crept towards the door, opening it carefully to hide her intent, and shutting it behind her with almost no noise at all.

Thank God the doors blocked out her wails. Quinn walked a little way from Danse’s room to ensure she wouldn’t be heard, and then tore through the Prydwen toward Cade’s sickbay.

“Cade!” she gasped, bursting into his office so violently he nearly fell out of his chair, while Kapraski woke with a loud snort. Only then did Quinn notice Stephen and Vivian Cooper standing at his desk, a bag of pre-war children’s vitamins clutched in Vivian’s hand.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, while Stephen helped Cade regain his composure and his box of various painkiller packs that were now scattered all over the floor.

“I...yeah. I’m sorry. It’s…” Quinn began, but then stopped. There was no time to lie, no time to pretend like her problem could wait while Cade ushered the Coopers out from his office.

Fuck it.

“Rachel Marguerie needs help,” said Quinn. “She’s having some sort of...I don’t know. Some sort of episode or breakdown. But I don’t know what to do and—"

“Where is she?” Vivian said at once.

“Viv, let Knight-Captain—" Stephen began, but she shot him a look like a behemoth with chronic toothache, and he quickly shut up.

“She’s our friend, Stephen.” Vivian turned to Cade. “Our friend, sir. We can help. _I_ can help.”

Cade glanced from the Coopers, to Quinn, and back to Vivian. Then he nodded and picked up a leather satchel from under his desk, before looking at Quinn again.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

“Oh Rach, honey.” Vivian Cooper crouched down next to Rachel and smoothed her hair out of her face. “What’s happened?”

“George…” Rachel mumbled, her shoulders twitching as she lay flat out on the bed again. “He’s dead. He’s left me.”

Vivian Cooper glanced up at her husband, who stood at the other side of the room with Quinn and Carson, a deep look of worry on her face. Then she returned her attention to Rachel, forcing a smile as she said, “Rach...George has been dead for years. You _know_ he’s been dead for years. Both him and...well...back in D.C., when the Enclave…”

She stopped as Rachel began to cry again, harder than ever.

Quinn had forgotten that only she and Danse knew Rachel’s family had survived. Now, however, in the face of Vivian’s insistences, Quinn felt her blood run cold. She had mentioned Rachel’s daughter in front of Carson. She turned to see him wearing a confused frown, but when Carson noticed her staring, one blatant look was enough for him to get the message.

_Shut up. I’ll tell you about it later._

He nodded and Quinn breathed a sigh of relief.

Cade set his bag down on the desk next to Danse’s bed and began to root through, wearing a concerned frown of his own. “Ma’am, do you know how much she’s had to drink?”

Only when Carson elbowed her in the ribs did Quinn realise the question was directed at her.

“No,” she replied. “We found a bottle of vodka with her with about two thirds of it left, but it got knocked off the deck when we brought her back inside. There wasn’t anything else that we saw, but that doesn’t mean shit.”

Cade nodded and then bent over Rachel, shining a light in her eyes and muttering to himself. He moved, blocking Rachel from view, and when he stood up again a few minutes later, he had a syringe full of blood in his hand.

Cade placed the syringe in a small bag, still talking to himself, and left the room without comment.

A heavy silence fell over the gathering, punctuated only by Rachel’s weak cries. Vivian reached out and patted her hand.

“How are you feeling, honey?”

Rachel didn’t answer at first, but after a few seconds, she softly said, “I’ve lost George. I’ve lost Danse. I lose everyone I care about.” Her fingers wrapped and Vivian’s. “I’ll lose you too. And then I’ll be alone.”

Vivian did not reply. Perhaps she couldn’t. Quinn knew she couldn’t think of an answer for such a harrowing proclamation. Instead, the quiet returned and did not leave until Cade bustled back into the room.

“Her alcohol levels are high enough for her to be drunk, but not high enough to cause her any physical harm.” He folded his arms, studying her. “In short, she can’t handle her vodka.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Vivian, wearing an expression of disbelief, “this is not just being a bit drunk. I’ve _seen_ Rach drunk before and it wasn’t this.”

“Did you see her intoxicated _after_ her husband died?”

Vivian hesitated and then begrudgingly said, “No.”

Cade nodded. “She _is_ drunk and she’s in shock. Not a good combination. I suspect it may have something to do with the passing of our former paladin. Knight-Sergeant Marguerie could win an award for bottling her feelings until she breaks.”

They all watched Rachel while she stared blankly ahead, clinging to Vivian’s hand.

“I’ll stay here with her and make sure she doesn’t do anything else stupid,” Vivian said to Cade.

“Do you want me to…?” Stephen asked, and she shook her head.

“No. I can handle Rach. Just let Joshua know I’m sorry I can’t read him a bedtime story tonight.”

“So I’m doing story time duty two shifts on the go, huh?” Stephen said with a grin. He walked over and took the bag of pre-war vitamins off her. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll survive.”

“I’ll get him some Fancy Lad Snack Cakes to make up for it.”

“Save some for me.” He planted a kiss on the top of Vivian’s head and then looked up as Cade spoke.

“When she’s sobered up a bit, make sure she drinks some water.” Cade took out a bottle of purified water and placed it on Danse’s desk. “And thank you.”

“No need to thank me. That’s what friends do.”

Cade nodded and then turned to Carson, shooting him a pointed look. “Come speak with me later. Or if you’re too tired now, then tomorrow, so we can have a little chat. Though you might prefer sooner rather than later—all my patients are currently bedded down for the night, so we’ll have more privacy.”

Carson glanced at Quinn, paling. They both knew what Cade was getting at.

_“Come see me while Kapraski is asleep.”_

“I...now might be better, I think,” Carson said, taking a sudden interest in his own feet.

“Excellent. Let me tidy up my office a bit, then come see me.” Cade picked up his bag and strode from the room, followed closely by Stephen Cooper. Carson gave a small sigh, shook his head, and trailed out after them through the open door, shutting it carefully behind him.

Rachel and Vivian seemed in their own little world, oblivious to Quinn. Rachel sounded like a broken record, murmuring, _“He’s dead, he’s dead,”_ over and over, while Vivian tried to calm her down.

Only when Rachel mentioned Danse’s name again, did Quinn pay attention.

“Danse...he...he _betrayed_ us. I trusted him and he...but I still…it hurts.”

Vivian’s face crumpled, but she made a respectful glance at Quinn before saying, “I know, Rach. I know. I...I miss him too. But he went out the best way possible given the circumstances, and that’s the only comfort we have.”

“He deserved to die.”

“Deserved...? Maybe.” Vivian sighed. “Maybe.”

After some time, Rachel’s cries softened, and she drifted off to sleep. Vivian watched her for a moment and then gently pulled her hand free, standing up and stretching with a low groan.

There was an awkward silence, and in a desperate bid to fill it, Quinn pulled Rachel’s book out of her pocket. “She dropped this when Carson and I were trying to get her to this room. Nearly threw herself off the ship to catch it. Do you know w—?”

“Did you read it?” Vivian asked sharply. When a startled Quinn shook her head, Vivian gave a relieved nod. “Rach has had that for a good eight or nine years now, but no one’s ever been allowed to look inside. It wouldn’t have been right for you to break the rules.”

Quinn watched her, unsure whether or not to voice what was on her mind. Eventually, she decided to test the water. “Um...Vivian?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Call me Quinn.”

“Yes, Quinn?”

“What you said before…” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “What you said about Danse. What did you mean?”

Vivian frowned. “Which part?”

“All of it. It sounds like you don’t hate him like everyone else does.”

“Honestly, I think most people on this ship won’t hate him.” She perked an eyebrow at Quinn’s surprised expression. “Don’t look so shocked. He was a very respected man in the Brotherhood. But our brothers and sisters...they’ve been swept up in the hysteria, maybe tricking themselves into thinking they hate him too. But in my opinion, I think there are few who _truly_ hate him for what happened.”

Vivian paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had a slight tremor in it.

“I cried when I found out.” She moved over to Danse’s old desk and leaned against it, tapping her hands against her knees. “I cried for myself a little, but I mostly cried for him. The soldier in me understands that letting him live would have been too great a risk, but as a former teammate...my heart broke. He didn’t deserve what he got, and knowing Danse as well as I do, he would have agreed with his sentence.”

“You don’t think he deserved to die?” Again, Quinn was surprised.

“No.” She gave a deep sigh. “But that doesn’t mean killing him was wrong. You _had_ to do it. He _had_ to die, to set an example that Institute infiltration, deliberate or otherwise, will not be tolerated, no matter who that person turns out to be. Especially if they are a higher rank. Otherwise, paranoia and disillusionment sets in. And then where would we be?” She twisted her mouth to the side and frowned. “But like I said, I don’t think he deserved it. I don’t think he even knew he was a synth. He gave everything to us, and we…”

There was a long, stinging silence. Quinn was caught off-guard by Vivian’s frankness—she held a casual confidence that reminded Quinn of Rachel. But with the way everyone was tiptoeing around the subject of Danse, Quinn appreciated that Vivian gave her opinion so freely.

“Rach, on the other hand…” Vivian glanced at Rachel and shook her head. “Rach likes to put up a cold, logical front, and it mostly serves her well...but there’s only so far it can stretch. I think this incident with Danse has pushed her past her limit. She’ll tell you that she’s glad he died—that he was just a machine—but she’s hurting deep.”

Quinn looked back down at the Knight-Sergeant, a mystery to her more than ever. Rachel seemed almost peaceful here, the harsh qualities of her face smoothed out by sleep.

Without thinking, Quinn asked, “Was she always such a hard person?”

“No. Don’t get me wrong, Rach is naturally a bit prickly, but she was never the same after the Enclave bombed that settlement. I don’t know how she pulled herself through it, honestly. If anything happened to Joshua…”

Vivian paused, shooting Quinn an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

“It’s fine,” Quinn said quickly. “I just...I don’t _understand_ her.”

“You don’t have to,” Vivian replied with a shrug. “That’s just how she is.”

“But—"

“Make no mistake,” Vivian interrupted, “Rach wanted Danse dead, and she would have killed him herself given half the chance. But that doesn’t mean she’s not distressed by all of this. She cared about him a great deal. When her family died, he was the only real friend she had left.”

“You told Cade that you were her friend.”

“I know. Stephen and I, we _are_ her friends, and we’d do anything for her. But the feeling isn’t reciprocated.”

“That’s...what?”

“Rach and I were close. I’d even go as far as to say we were best friends. But…” Vivian sighed. “Joshua is a little bit older than her daughter. I think Rach saw what we had and couldn’t bear to be near our happy family. But Danse had recently lost Cutler. His grief might not have been at the same level, but it was fresh and it was raw. They bonded in a way neither of us could comprehend.”

Vivian stared down at Rachel’s sleeping form.

“And now he’s gone.”

* * *

The night dragged on.

After a few hours of forced conversation and long stretches of quiet, Vivian Cooper suggested Quinn get some rest while she continued to watch over Rachel. Quinn didn’t argue—her disrupted sleep over the last week had left her constantly clinging to the edge of exhaustion. And while she wasn’t keen to revisit her nightmares, she wanted to try for Danse.

As reached the bunks, however, Quinn realised that while Casey had settled herself to sleep, Carson was missing. Was he still talking with Cade?

“Well, no harm in finding out,” she muttered, and set off back in the direction of the sickbay.

The Prydwen felt eerily devoid of life at this time of night. There were still patrols, but other than that, Quinn didn’t see a soul. She smiled, remembering her early days on the ship, wondering how people slept through soldiers clanking about in their power armour. Now she barely noticed them stomping about the decks.

Quinn reached Cade’s office in good time, somewhat unsettled by the way the patrolling knights stopped and saluted her. It seemed Maxson had made sure the news of her promotion had worked quickly through the ranks.

As she reached her destination, Quinn was surprised to see Cade sat outside his own sickbay, reading a battered copy of _Lord of the Flies_ with such intensity it took Quinn three tries to get his attention.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am.”

“Quinn,” Quinn corrected.

“Ah.” He shut his book and stretched in his seat, yawning. “Lancer Kapraski woke up while I was in the middle of my talk with Knight Carson. I decided to leave them alone.”

Cade leaned forward, peering around the door into his office. “Why don’t you go and check on them?”

Taking the hint, Quinn walked inside and saw a corner had been blocked off by a curtain. Behind it was one solid, misshapen shadow. Feeling apprehensive, Quinn slowly pulled back the hanging fabric, and then smiled.

Carson was sitting in a chair next to Kapraski’s bed, his upper body and arms leaning onto the gurney, his head in Kapraski’s lap. Kapraski’s good arm was thrown lazily over Carson’s shoulder, his fingers resting on his lover’s neck. Both of them were fast asleep.

Quinn let the curtain fall back into place.

* * *

“You never answered my question earlier, you know.”

Danse glanced up from the piece of plating he was working on and frowned at Haylen from across the room. “What question?”

“About Quinn.”

“Oh.” Danse returned to his armour mod, buffing up the metal with an old piece of cloth.

Haylen stuck her head out from behind the stacks of boxes she had been rummaging through and scowled. “That’s all you’re going to say—oh?”

“What do you _want_ me to say?” He shrugged, feeling nettled. While Haylen was nowhere near Marguerie’s level of interference, he couldn’t help but wonder if all his female friends had a natural disposition towards meddling.

There was a grunt, a scraping noise, and then Haylen came tottering around the corner carrying a crate almost as big as she was. Dropping his own project, Danse hurried over to help her, taking the burden off her with ease and setting it down on a nearby table.

“Are you trying to make another Liberty Prime?” Danse asked, picking out parts from the box and inspecting them with confusion.

“Oh har-dee-har,” Haylen replied, tugging the scrap from his hands and stuffing it back with the rest. “I can have my own secrets too. And on that note, don’t change the subject.”

Danse sighed and turned away from her. “Haylen, I have enough on my mind without…”

“I know. And I’m not trying to force you into a conversation you don’t want, but…”

“But you’re going to try anyway?”

“No!” Haylen’s cheeks flushed pink. “It’s just...she obviously likes you…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Danse snapped, turning over the plating on the workbench so hard it bounced and nearly fell off the side. He was sick of this. He was sick of everyone trying to worm their way into his affairs. “I’ve heard enough, Haylen. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Haylen was no Marguerie. Her blush darkened to a deep scarlet as she shrank away and quickly said, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“And don’t call me ‘sir.’”

“Sorry, si...sorry.”

Danse didn’t reply, and after a few moments, Haylen walked over to her box and began pulling out various components.

Part of him felt guilty for being sharp with her, but the rest of him didn’t care. He hadn’t liked it when Marguerie had pressured him into doing and saying things before he was ready, and he didn’t like it now. Especially when what he wanted most was firmly out of his reach.

The idea of navigating around rank and duty felt laughably easy in comparison to this new minefield. What sane human being would want to be with a machine? Danse set down his screwdriver and leaned onto his workbench, staring at the backs of his hands. They seemed so...genuine. Every crease and freckle and scar—each line and vein and birthmark—all so natural looking. All of it manufactured.

Quinn could pick a real person to be with. Why would she want him?

“...Haylen?”

“Yes?” He heard her turn, though he kept looking firmly at his hands.

“What do...how…?” He licked his lips and exhaled heavily through his nose. “Why do you think Quinn…?” Danse hesitated, not wanting to say the words.

“Why do I think she likes you?” Haylen finished for him.

Danse closed his eyes and nodded.

“After everything you told me today, you’re asking that question? She saved your _life.”_

Her tone was so incredulous, he his eyes snapped open again as he looked over at her with surprise.

“I’ve saved people’s lives before on the sheer principle of it,” Danse said, frowning. “So has Quinn. Saving my life means nothing.”

Haylen unfolded her arms and shook her head, smiling. “But it’s not just your life, is it? Look around you.” She gestured to the bunker. “She took the time to make this a home rather than a prison. She went against Maxson for you. She was willing to make his world crumble just because he’d threatened you. She adores you, Danse.”

He couldn’t think of an answer to this, so he straightened up and returned to his work, his face hot. After a few minutes, Haylen walked back to her box and began noisily rummaging, and then strolled across the room to her own table to tinker.

How long they worked in silence, Danse didn’t know, but suddenly a crackle sounded, making him jump.

The static cleared, and Danse heard a voice so old and creaky that it sounded like its owner was late for his own funeral. But the man had a deep, pleasant southern twang, and Danse felt his heart skip a beat as he said, _“...from none other than Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys. Ol’ Bill did some of his best work in his later golden years, but this tune is near and dear to my heart. I give to you…‘Kentucky Waltz.’”_

Danse turned to see Haylen standing with an old radio clutched in her hands, wearing a small smile.

“I know how much you like your bluegrass music,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And I know you never really had the freedom to tune into this station whenever you wanted. So consider it my gift to you. What did the old pre-war books call it?” Haylen held out the radio to him. “A housewarming present.”

Danse stood rooted to the spot, a lump in his throat, and Haylen’s smile faltered as she lowered her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her eyes turning down as she flushed, the jaunty music still playing from the battered radio. “It was a stupid idea.”

“No.” Danse strode across the room, shaking his head, and took the radio from her, turning it over in his hands. “This is...I can’t even…” He hugged the radio to his chest, muffling out Bill Monroe’s singing, and his face broke into a wide, warm smile. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Haylen beamed at him.

* * *

Quinn woke with a gasp, staring up at walkways above her bed, her chest heaving as she shook away the nightmare. There was no Danse to comfort her, no hand in the darkness to take her fingers and tell her he was alive.

_Get a grip, for fuck’s sake,_ she thought, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She wiped away the sweat clinging to her forehead and cheeks. _He’s fine. You know he’s fine. You’re being fucking ridiculous._

God, she missed him.

Other soldiers were waking up now. It must be close to dawn, if not just past it. A few of them glanced in her direction and froze, before hastily jumping out of bed and saluting her.

Quinn frowned, confused.

“Morning, ma’am!”

Oh. Right.

“Morning,” she said, getting to her feet and stalking away. Had she even spoken to half of these people before? Maybe Maxson had been handing out little flyers with her face sketched on them so every fucking person on the ship _knew_ who Danse’s killer was.

Whispers and wide-eyed stares followed her as she walked through the Prydwen to the mess hall. Much to her disgust, the commentary was wholly positive.

_“That’s her. That’s the vaultie who dealt with the synth.”_

_“Don’t call her ‘vaultie,’ you moron. She’s a paladin now.”_

Quinn clenched her hands into fists, but managed to bite her tongue. All of this depended on her being able to keep her cool, on being able to pretend she killed Danse. He was alive, and that mattered more than the crass comments from this rusted bucket full of idiots.

“Ma’am?”

Quinn glanced up to see David Bantios—the eternally nervous scribe—looking at her. He glanced over his shoulder, red in the face, and his friends egged him on.

“Um, ma’am. J-just wanted to say that...that...you did an excellent job, and that your promotion was well deserved.”

“Was it?” Quinn asked coolly, raising an eyebrow.

Bantios went so red his face was blending in with his scarlet uniform. “I...um…”

“I know what you’re trying to say,” Quinn said, deciding to take pity on him, “and I appreciate that you’re trying to say it. But I did what I was ordered to. I took no joy in killing him.”

The mess hall had gone very quiet. Quinn sighed and stood up from her table, a half-baked speech forming in her head. The whispers and comments had been increasing all morning—if she didn't say something, the gossip would only get worse. At the very least, this would stop anyone else trying to congratulate her about it.

“He didn’t know he was a synth.” Quinn glanced about the room, glaring. “But when he found out, he _did_ know he was a risk to us all. Once I caught up to him, he took it upon himself to make sure he was destroyed properly.”

Silence.

Quinn took this as an invitation to continue. “It wasn’t the glorious hunt or the epic tale that you all hoped for. It was sad and messy and unpleasant. But it had to be done.”

She paused.

_“Fuck the Institute.”_

No one could ever accuse her of mincing her words, at least. The Brotherhood would quickly learn their new paladin lacked the professional distinctions of the old one.

Quinn didn’t give a shit. If Maxson disliked it, he could demote her.

Casting one final scathing look about the uncertain crowd, Quinn picked up her bowl of stale cereal and strode out of the mess hall.

* * *

Carson tracked her down within twenty minutes.

“I hear you’re bullying the initiates,” he said, dropping himself next to Quinn as she shovelled dry cereal into her mouth with a deep scowl. “That one of them near pissed his pants when you shouted at him. Breaking into your new role as paladin?”

“I didn’t shout at him,” Quinn said through a mouthful of food, leaning against the walkway railings and closing her eyes. She swallowed and then said, “Just reminding people not to talk shit about things they don’t understand.”

“Well if it makes you feel any better, everyone’s now arguing whether Paladin Danse was actually a traitor.”

“Bet Maxson’s gonna kick my ass for it.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Carson shuffled himself forward and leaned on the rails next to her. “They’re commending you and Maxson for making the difficult choices and doing what needed to be done. Only now no one is sure if Paladin Danse was working for the Institute or if he was oblivious.”

Quinn shrugged and began eating her cereal again. “That’s their problem, not mine.”

“Fair enough.” Carson dipped his fingers into her cereal bowl and pulled out a handful. He started eating the individual pieces from his palm.

Quinn raised an eyebrow at him and then gave a faint grin. “Saw you asleep on Kapraski last night. Things good between you two again?”

Carson dropped the last piece of cereal he had been about to pop in his mouth, and watched woefully as it fell off the walkway and down into the ship below. Rolling her eyes, Quinn offered him her bowl, and he smirked and took another handful.

“I think so,” Carson said, carefully selecting the next bit of cereal from his hand. He tossed it into the air and it bounced off his nose and disappeared into the darkness.

_“Don’t waste those.”_

“Bet you I can get more than you.”

“...You’re on.” Quinn set down her bowl between them, picked up a piece, and threw it into the air. It hit her in the eye and skittered off down the walkway.

“Pathetic. At least I can get mine close to my mouth.”

“Oh yeah?” Quinn picked up a handful of cereal and threw it into Carson’s face. He yelped like a puppy whose tail had been stood on, and knocked the bowl straight off the side. There was a crash and a _“What the fuck?”_ and both Quinn and Carson glanced at each other.

“...Tactical retreat?” he said.

“Tactical retreat,” Quinn replied.

The two of them jumped up and ran off, sniggering. They only stopped when they’d dashed to the bottom of the ship, as far away from trouble as possible.

“You’re a paladin, though,” Carson wheezed, trying to catch his breath back, “so unless Kells is on the warpath because Sugar Bombs got stuck in the gears or something, they can’t do shit to you.”

Quinn walked through the empty underbelly of the Prydwen, and signalled for Carson to follow her to their usual spot behind the stacks of crates. Once they settled down, she nudged him in the ribs.

“You and Kapraski. What happened?”

“Well…” Carson rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. “We hashed it out. There was a lot that needed saying, more from me than him, I think. Told him I was sick of his shit and that it had to stop, but…” Carson’s cheeks went dark scarlet. “But that I loved him and I wanted to help him, if he’d just let me.”

“And what did he say?” Quinn asked, leaning against him.

“That he loved me too, and that he was sorry. God, he said he was sorry so many times…I asked him why he’d been the way he was, and he said he didn’t know. Just that he was angry all the time. Angry at what had happened to him, angry that he couldn’t have done more to save himself. That maybe it would have been better if he’d died, so then I wouldn’t be stuck with someone broken like him.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“I called him a fucking idiot, of course,” Carson said, his voice suddenly thick. “Told him he wasn’t broken. That I wasn’t better off without him. But that he needed to start getting his shit together. And then we just...talked. About everything. For once, I stuck to my guns instead of just trying to avoid an argument, and it was good...real good.”

Carson gave a deep sigh. But then he smiled. “I think we’re gonna be fine.”

Quinn sat up and frowned at him. “What do you mean, you stuck to your guns ‘for once?’ You were one of the first people to call me out on my shit when I was taken off active duty.”

“Yeah, but how long did I put up with you pushing my buttons before that happened?” Carson shrugged. “I’m not good with conflict. Never have been.”

“Then why in God’s name did you join the military?”

“Different kind of conflict,” Carson replied. “A real fight is easier than a pissed off boyfriend.”

Quinn stared at him. “You are fuckin’ crazy.”

“A _real_ fight is black and white. Us or them. And the answer will always be _‘us.’_ But when you’re going head to head with a loved one...that’s grey, and it’s harder to know who is right.” He sighed. “That’s why it took me so long to leave home. All I wanted to do was please the family. But eventually I realised making myself miserable wasn’t the way to go. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

“One day you’re gonna be in a real battle where you don’t know what the right thing to do is,” Quinn said, shaking her head. “One day you’ll end up in a situation where there isn’t an ‘us or them.’ When that happens, you have to follow your gut and go with what you think is best.”

“If that day ever comes, I’m fucked.” He glanced at her. “That’s what happened with Paladin Danse, isn’t it?”

Quinn’s heart leapt into her throat. “What?”

“No ‘us or them.’ You had to pick an option and hope it was the right choice.”

Her response caught in her throat, so she stared at her hands instead.

Carson turned to look at her properly. “I wanted to ask you earlier if you were alright, but I’ve been so caught up in my problems— _and_ Rachel’s—I just...forgot. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Quinn said quietly. “I didn’t want to talk about it anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat, but kept avoiding his eye. Quinn trusted Carson with her life, but the less he knew, the better. Not wanting to talk about it at all was simpler than trying to lie.  “I know I made the right choice, but...I…”

Danse’s holotape burned in her pocket. She had found it shortly before they’d left the hotel and slipped it away when he wasn’t looking. It was Danse’s most personal, most horrendous confession...and yet she wanted someone to understand the hell she had been enduring, even if this only scratched the surface.

With trembling fingers, she pulled out Nate’s holotape, switching it with the cracked one, and shut the tape deck.

“Quinn?”

She didn’t look at Carson, staring fixedly at her Pip-Boy, her finger hovering over the play button. Then, without warning, she pressed it.

Danse’s flat, resigned voice filled the air, and Quinn’s body clenched, tears pricking her eyes at the thought of him sat in that damn bunker, alone, waiting...waiting…

She could sense Carson’s eyes staring. Were they filled with pity? Contempt? Indifference?

His arm suddenly slipped around her, and Carson pulled her gently into his lap, rocking her as he held her close. Carson said nothing. He didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to make a sound. Every unspoken word was said in his tight, heartfelt embrace.

It wasn’t the same as Danse. Nothing could ever be as good as Danse.

But still.

Just right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning. Especially since she had to do extra editing this week to accommodate for my hands so I wouldn't hurt them more. Speaking of which, my hands are on the mend. I've been wearing wrist splints on both hands whenever I'm not at work, and avoiding writing, the internet in general, and gaming, instead just watching TV (The World at War...I have the DVD collection). While I love the show, I've been very restless and frustrated, because I wanted to just get back to writing.
> 
> They're still sore, but nowhere near as bad as last week. I think with a few more days I'll be able to get back to writing again. We'll see.
> 
> It's canon that Danse is a bluegrass fan: https://youtu.be/16XS0BNPSEE?t=21s


	44. Luperca’s Lament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the beginning of this chapter came from a piece of fanart I received a few weeks ago. I had an idea for it, but this art definitely shaped it into what it is now.
> 
> http://amaltherenartz.tumblr.com/post/148117974005
> 
> Chapter spoilers (kinda) if you click on it.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, waiting4morning for her usual fantastic help!
> 
> Also, thank you to musashi, fallendawn, mondesme, and milykitty5 from tumblr for the Spanish translation help!

 

The Airport. That’s where Vivian Cooper said she would find Rachel. The Airport.

After the state Rachel had been in yesterday, Quinn was surprised that she’d managed to drag herself anywhere, never mind all the way down to the ground floor, surrounded by officers and an increased chance of bumping into Proctor Ingram.

She ignored the salute the lancer gave her as she clambered inside the nearest vertibird, and sighed at the response of, _“Yes, ma’am,”_ at her request to be taken to the ground.

Only a few had seen the elusive knight-sergeant, but every finger pointed in the same direction: Rachel had gone _inside_ the ruins.

“Of all the places to mope,” Quinn muttered as she slipped in, throwing a wary glance at the long shadows cast on the walls and ceiling by the light of her Pip-Boy. The darkened building stank of stagnant water, putrid food, and something festering, lurking in the deep black. Thank God she had brought her rifle out of habit.

As she moved further into the airport, the smell of rotting meat became more pronounced, and soon she found herself greeted by bodies floating in large pools, their skulls caved in, fresh blood tainting the murky water. Only when Quinn got closer did she realise the smell was not of decaying flesh, but of _ghouls._ These ferals couldn’t have been dead for more than thirty minutes. Quinn raised her weapon, wincing as she edged through the flooded room, the cold water coming up to her waist.

Eventually she made it to dry land, shivering, her soaked clothes clinging to her skin. On and on she went, the frequency of dead ferals increasing with every room, every corner, every corridor. All of them had their skulls bashed in by some unknown blunt object. So far, Quinn had seen no sign of a discarded weapon.

_Clang._

Quinn jumped so hard she nearly tripped over a ghoul she had been inspecting. Holding her breath, she pointed her rifle in the direction of the noise, waiting.

_Clang._

Frowning, she stepped over the bodies with care, keeping her footsteps light and guarded. What the hell—?

_Clang._

_Clang._

_Clang._

The sound went on and on, growing faster in pace as Quinn drew near, grunts of effort accompanying them, sharp and growling. Painful exertion, past the point of human endurance. Steeling herself, Quinn peered around the corner.

Rachel Marguerie stood in the centre of the room, a large, rusted scaffolding pole in her hands. She wielded it the way a medieval warrior would have swung a Scottish claymore, with heavy strikes that bit deep into the stone pillar that was her target. The end of the pole was stained with blood, and bits of skin and hair clung to the metal.

“Rachel, what the hell are you doing?” Quinn said loudly, still holding her weapon aloft.

The knight-sergeant paused, her shoulders heaving with her labour, and then turned to Quinn with a strange smile on her face. “Training, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” Quinn replied sharply, lowering her gun as she approached. But she had only taken two steps forward when Rachel began attacking the pillar again with even more vitriol than before. She gaped at Rachel for a second, shook her head, and then began loudly speaking over the clangs. “What—”

_Clang._

“—the hell—”

_Clang._

“—was yesterday about?”

_Clang._

_“Rachel!”_

Rachel gave a snarl of effort, and there was a loud metallic crack. A piece of the scaffolding flew off, striking her in the face, and she staggered back, blood pouring from the wound.

“Oh shit,” Quinn said, running over to help.

“I’m fine,” Rachel snapped, holding up a hand, the other still clutching the pole. It was then Quinn noticed her arms were covered with bruises and bite marks, likely from the ghouls. “I’m fine. Just a flesh wound.”

She looked up to reveal a large gash running through her weathered features, from cheek to nose to forehead, barely missing her left eye. Her odd grin widened, blood dripping down onto her smoke-stained teeth.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Quinn shook her head and stepped forward. “Were you telling the truth yesterday? Is your husband really dead?”

The bluntness of the question caught Rachel off-guard, and the smile slipped from her face. She stared at Quinn for a moment and then spat out a mouthful of blood, nodding. “Yes. It’s true.”

“How do you know that?”

“I received a letter notifying me of his death. Sealed, so no one else saw it but me.” She stared down at the pole in her hand, her eyes studying its snapped end. “I burned it.”

Quinn considered her for a moment, eyeing the pole nervously before saying, “George is gone. That leaves your daughter all alone.”

“Don’t.” Rachel’s grip on her weapon tightened, her eyes blazing, and Quinn felt herself instinctively raise her gun. The knight-sergeant noticed and laughed in her face. “I’m no threat to you. But I know what you’re trying to do. Save it. I haven’t changed my mind, and I never will. Besides, she’s grown up not knowing me. Forcing my way back into her life won’t help matters. She’s just lost her father.”

“But she would _gain_ a mother.”

“She would gain a woman who can’t stand to look at her,” Rachel snapped. “We’ve been over this. I provide for her the only way I can, by giving her everything I earn and more. _I_ protect her. _I_ keep the wolf from her door.”

“She doesn’t need money. She needs a parent.” Why couldn’t Rachel understand this simple fucking point?

“No, what she _needs_ are people who accept her for what she is, and that isn’t me. How many times do I have to go over this shit?”

“How many times are you going to just ignore the fact you’re running away from your only daughter?”

Rachel slammed the end of the pole down into the ground with a bang, and leaned against it like a staff. “I’m done arguing about this, Quinn.”

The warning was clear in her voice: _back off._ Quinn decided to change tack.

“How are you feeling since yesterday? After George, I mean.”

“Fine,” Rachel said with a shrug, standing up straight and resuming her training, speaking between the clangs. “I was just shocked, and had a drink to calm me down. Didn’t react well to the alcohol.”

“You don’t need to keep putting on a brave face, Rachel,” Quinn said gently, navigated her words around Rachel’s loud, metallic strikes.

The knight-sergeant lowered the pole again and laughed. “You’ve been talking to Viv, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have,” Quinn replied, scowling. “You cling to a fucking railing from the top of an airship, sobbing your goddamn heart out, and you expect your friends not to talk?”

Some of the mirth left Rachel’s face, her eyes cold and hard as she said, “That’s rich, coming from you. Drank any whiskey lately?”

“No, but given the hoops I had to jump through to drag your ass to my quarters, I’d say we’re even, Marguerie.”

“Ooh, _Marguerie,”_ Rachel said, looking amused again. “Someone’s filled Danse’s shoes quick.” She paused, surprised with herself, and Quinn saw the grief flicker through her features.

“Cut the shit and stop acting like you don’t care,” Quinn said, finally losing her temper. “I know what happened with you and MacCready.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Both women looked at each other, and Quinn felt a hot flush race up her face. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have—"

Rachel snorted. “He told you, did he?”

Quinn blinked. That wasn’t the reaction she had been expecting. The knight-sergeant was regarding her with mild interest, an eyebrow raised. Trying to control the nausea in the pit of her stomach, Quinn said, “No, he didn’t tell me anything. I guessed and I pestered him about it. Sometimes he’s as easy to read as a book.”

“Now that I agree with.”

 Rachel’s nonchalance was unsettling, but it quelled the mortification that was crawling under Quinn’s skin. How the hell could she have brought this up, knowing her husband was dead? And yet it didn’t seem to bother Rachel in the slightest.

_That’s not the point,_ Quinn thought angrily. _You should be better than that._

Rachel was still watching her, wearing an expression of easy indifference. Quinn decided to test the water. “Look...I’m sorry I mentioned him. It was...I just…” God, why was this so difficult? “I know you must be feeling guilty about the whole thing. He said you left before he woke up—"

“Guilty?” Rachel gave a bark of laughter. “No, I don’t feel guilty. I left because I didn’t want him getting the wrong impression. I had other shit to do and the moment had run its course.”

“But...your husband?”

She shrugged. “I loved George. I _still_ love George. But when he turned, we agreed to go our separate ways. I’ve had _years_ to come to terms with that.” She inspected the pole in her hand, picking at the patches of rust with her finger. “Robert might feel bad over Lucy, but George wouldn’t begrudge me moving on...and I wouldn’t have begrudged him, either.”

“Moving on?”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look too deep into it. Robert’s a nice guy. Practical. Easy to be around. But he acts like he’s seen everything the world has to offer and was unimpressed with the show. In reality, he’s the kind of man that will never grow up.”

Quinn bristled at the unfair, unfavourable description of her friend. “He’s a seasoned killer, just like you, Rachel.”

“So is anyone in the wasteland that’s survived for any length of time.”

There was a long silence. Quinn studied Rachel, from her casual stance to the cool disinterest she had carefully placed over her features. Every inch of her said, _“I don’t care.”_ As Rachel turned to strike the pillar again, Quinn caught her arm. The bite marks felt wet and sticky beneath Quinn’s fingers, but still she held on.

“You’re a goddamn liar,” said Quinn quietly.

“Oh?” Rachel replied, smirking.

“And you can wipe that grin off your face, too,” Quinn snapped. “Vivian told me you liked to pretend you didn’t give a shit, but this reaches a whole new level.”

“I don’t—" Rachel began, pulling her arm free of her grip.

_“Shut up.”_

Maybe it was the sheer ballsiness that caught Rachel by surprise, or just the razor sharpness of Quinn’s voice. Whatever the case, her eyes widened, and she stopped her protest before it began.

“For someone who sees MacCready as a fling, you sure remember a lot about him,” Quinn said, stepping back and folding her arms. “Calling him Robert? Recalling his wife’s name? Not wanting to lead him on?”

“I got to know him. So what?” Rachel said, shrugging. The mask had cracked, though, and she looked pale and apprehensive.

“That’s more than getting to know him.” She stepped closer, and Rachel edged away from her, glaring. Quinn returned the scowl. “You’ve been through hell and back these last few weeks. Stop hiding. Stop pretending!”

“What the _fuck_ do you want from me?” Rachel yelled, flaring up so suddenly Quinn stumbled back in shock. “What the _fuck_ do you want me to say, huh? That I feel like I’ve died, because George has been taken away from me? That I regret not being able to spend the rest of my life with him, when I had every chance to do so? That I feel guilty for fucking someone else while he’s dead in his grave? That my daughter is alone, with no one to comfort her, and I’m too _weak_ to be there for her?”

She threw the pole aside and marched towards a retreating Quinn, her milky skin burning red as she gestured violently, her eyes filled with wild anger. “That I feel broken because the one person I thought I could trust turned out to be a lying _traitor?_ That I feel like his conspirator for mourning his death, but that I also feel robbed for not being able to kill him myself?”

“There is nothing wrong with hurting—" Quinn began to say, but the knight-sergeant shoved Quinn with all her might, sending her crashing to the ground. Quinn scrambled back as Rachel approached, pressing her body into the wall that blocked her escape, steeling herself for the next blow.

_“I don't want to hurt!”_ Rachel screamed, standing over her and clutching her hair.  “I’m so fucking _sick_ of hurting! I just want it to go numb, to stop until I—!”

Her rage caught in her throat, and she stood there, her breaths quick and shallow, her fingers entwined in her sweat-slicked hair. She no longer looked down at Quinn, but instead stared blankly ahead at the wall, her features ravaged by distress. Then slowly the anguish left as her mask neatly slid back into place, and Rachel calmly turned around walked back toward the pole she had thrown away. She picked it up, stared at it for a moment, and then began attacking the pillar again.

Quinn couldn’t move, could barely breathe. She had never seen Rachel lose control like that before—had never thought her even capable of it. What was it Cade had said?

_“Knight-Sergeant Marguerie could win an award for bottling her feelings until she breaks.”_

Quinn inhaled slowly, trying to soothe her racing heart. Suddenly Rachel glanced over her shoulder, causing her body to tense.

The knight-sergeant considered her and then said, “I know you found my book. Viv gave it back to me this morning. Aren’t you going to ask what’s in it?”

Now that was peculiar.

Quinn forgot her alarm for a moment and said, truthfully, “No. If you wanted me to know, you’d have told me.”

Rachel smiled. “Thank you.”

She returned to her onslaught of the stone pillar, each clang echoing loudly in the quiet airport ruins. Quinn watched her for a while, her brain trying to understand what had happened. Rachel Marguerie—Knight-Sergeant Rachel Marguerie, possibly the toughest woman Quinn had met since Mrs Bossanova herself—had shown her a series of wounds that ran so deep, they reached her very core. Part of her was afraid of Rachel, afraid of how unstable she was, how much longer she had until she snapped completely. But a larger part of her wanted to help. Rachel wasn’t a soldier who couldn’t keep her temper. She was a grieving widow in desperate need.

An old reflection.

“Rachel,” Quinn said, and the knight-sergeant stopped her attack.

“Please,” Rachel replied quietly, not looking at her. “Please...let me pretend. Let me have my facade. I just want to keep going, to forget it all and move on with my life. Until the next person I care about dies.” She struck out once at the pillar, and then turned back to Quinn. “I think you of all people should understand that.”

“You can’t go on like this,” Quinn said, slowly getting to her feet, her legs still trembling. “You’re slipping towards an edge you can’t climb back from.”

“Maybe I am,” Rachel replied with a shrug, aiming a few more hits on the stone column opposite her. “But that doesn’t change things. Everyone dies but me. I keep on surviving. I keep on being left behind. There’s only so many times it can happen before it becomes background noise.”

“You aren’t immortal, Rachel.”

“No.” She turned to Quinn and dropped the metal pole on the floor, her dark eyes glittering. “But I’m good at wanting to live.”

With that, she strode past, leaving Quinn standing alone in the gloom.

* * *

Life went on in the Prydwen.

Perhaps the hardest thing to adjust to was the distance everyone put between her and them. People who had once greeted her in the mess hall or the corridor now stood to attention, sometimes going as far as to avert their eyes. The title of ‘ma’am’ was becoming more familiar to her than her own name, and there was a certain sense of apprehensive awe that hung over every conversation she had.

“Ma’am?” a small, muffled voice said by her elbow.

Quinn looked down to see Scribe Bantios hiding the lower half of his face behind a scratched clipboard, eyeing her nervously. Carson was standing next to the scribe, holding his own paperwork.

With an inward sigh, Quinn continued her inspection of the initiates that were halfway through their training on the Prydwen. It had been Danse’s responsibility to evaluate them. Now the task fell to her. She stomped over to the next recruit, a young, tanned man with unruly black hair and sharp eyes. He stared up at her, unflinching, as she loomed over him in her power armour.

Quinn liked him immediately.

“Name?” she said to Carson.

“Uh…” Carson peered at his clipboard. “This is...” He squinted. “...Initiate Noo-nezz?”

Quinn glanced over at the list and rolled her eyes. “It’s pronounced _‘Nun-yeth’,_ Knight Carson.”

“Oh.” Carson shot an apologetic glance at the initiate. “Sorry.”

Initiate Núñez did not answer him, however, but stared at Quinn with surprise. “Señora, ¿habla español? No hay muchas persona las cuales puedan hablarlo en estos dias.”

Quinn shook her head. “No idea what you just said, kid. I can say some Spanish words right, but I don’t know anything else.”

Initiate Núñez frowned at her and switched to English. “Where did you learn to pronounce it, ma’am?”

“My mom’s maiden name was _‘Núñez’_ too. European immigrant who wanted to see the States and had the great misfortune of ending up with my dad.”

The initiate blinked at her, and Quinn realised he probably hadn’t understood half of what she’d said. She grinned. “Sorry, pre-war talk. My mom could speak Spanish, but I was a stubborn child who refused to learn.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Bantios eyeing her with wonder. Núñez himself had a small smile on his face, which widened as he said, “My mamí...was persistent.”

The two of them grinned at each other until Carson coughed loudly and pointedly.

“Ma’am?” he said, raising his eyebrow at her. “The inspection?”

“Oh, yeah. Shit.”

There were a few nervous giggles in the crowd.

Learning how to live up to Danse’s example was not a simple task, and one Quinn suspected she would never complete. The raw authority that he wielded with ease was beyond her comprehension. She preferred to remain herself, a paladin in her own right. Lacking any kind of professionalism...but maybe more approachable because of it.

Quinn smiled at them. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ten minutes later, she dismissed them all, and Carson and Quinn walked back towards Danse’s room, the knight’s arms full of her paperwork. She grinned as he grumbled.

“The benefits of being your boss now, I guess,” Quinn said sweetly.

“Carry on like that and I’m going to start calling you ‘ma’am’ again,” Carson muttered.

Forgetting she was in her power armour, Quinn nudged Carson in the ribs and sent him staggering into the door of Danse’s room with a bang, her paperwork flying up into the air like a mushroom cloud.

“Oh shit, sorry!”

Pieces of paper settled around Carson in an untidy arc, and he got up from the floor, groaning and clutching his side. “S’fine. Not like I needed my ribcage or anything.”

But Carson smiled to show her he was alright, and together they picked up the wayward documents, making sure they were all there and in the right order. Then they went inside Danse’s room, Carson setting down the papers on a nearby desk while Quinn slipped out of her armour. It had been given a paladin’s paint job since her promotion, and looked oddly clean to her.

When she turned back to Carson, he was frowning. His attention flicked between a heap of Brotherhood uniforms on the floor and a pile of her possessions, both next to each other in the far corner of the room. Books, holotapes, and even her old vault suit had been stacked up, her entire life in the Brotherhood now contained in one small section of the room.

Carson walked over to the uniforms and inspected them, before glancing at Danse’s bed. “Are you...is this where you’re sleeping?”

“Teagan sold me them,” Quinn said with a shrug.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Quinn didn’t answer, but walked over to Danse’s desk, staring at the pistol he had been working on before he had left the Prydwen. Next to it, a set of dog tags, tucked inside a shot glass with a chip on the rim. Quinn hadn’t touched them, but she suspected who they might belong to. Behind that, Danse’s book was propped up against the wall, well-read, but also well cared for.

Everything as he had left it.

“Quinn,” Carson said, and she glanced over to him. He was still wearing his frown. “You need to talk with Cade about this. You need to talk about what happened. Even if Paladin Danse wanted to go, it still must have been—"

“I’ve already said I’m fine,” Quinn said, her heart racing again. There was a limit to how much grief she could act out, and Cade would see straight through her. That, or he would think she was so far gone she needed to stay on the Prydwen to recover. And then she’d never be able to go and visit Danse.

“Quinn,” Carson said again. “Don’t do this. I don’t want you ending up like Rachel.”

Since their talk, Rachel had been startlingly different. Hollow-eyed and dazed, she spent her time walking through the Prydwen, chain smoking and barely speaking. When she did talk, she was quiet and cool, her tone overly formal, her expression blank.

Quinn didn’t know what to do about her. Reporting her to Cade would risk revealing her daughter still lived, and that she had lied about her husband. But not revealing this information blocked the knight-sergeant from getting the help she so obviously needed.

If Danse had been here, Quinn would have gone to him for advice, maybe even given the burden of responsibility over to him. But now that burden was hers, and hers alone. Even when Carson had asked about Rachel’s family, Quinn had only given him the brief circumstances, emphasising that if Rachel hadn’t told him, he didn’t need to know all the facts. Carson had agreed, promising not to mention it to anyone.

No one else knew the truth. No one else held all cards like she did.

For now, the best option seemed to be to ignore it; to wait to see if Rachel got any worse. But if she waited too long…

Quinn sighed.

“Don’t sigh at me,” Carson snapped. “This is serious.”

“I’m not—" Quinn shook her head. “Carson, I need to deal with this in my own way for now. And right now, I have so much on my plate, I’m not dwelling. I dwelled over Nate and nearly gave myself alcohol poisoning. Please, let me just get on with things.”

She sounded like Rachel again.

“Danse is dead,” Quinn said, her voice wavering slightly. It wasn’t deliberate, but it sounded convincing. “He shouldn’t have died, but that can’t be changed. And I want to carry on his memory and continue his work in his stead. Which is the only reason I accepted this damn position in the first place.”

Carson studied her for a long time, the silence growing between them. Then he sighed. “Alright. I’ll drop it. Just promise me you’ll at _least_ talk to me if you need someone.”

“I will, I promise.”

“And no alcohol, either.”

“No alcohol will touch these lips if I get too low. I’ll speak to you first.”

He surveyed her for a moment longer and nodded. “Good.” Carson glanced about the room. “But I really think you need to clear this place out. You’re living in Paladin Danse’s shadow.”

“But…” Quinn dropped her gaze. “This is his…”

_“Was_ his.” Carson moved closer and stared at her until she looked up at him. “No more sleeping on the floor. No more keeping your stuff in a heap while a dead man’s things stay the same as ever. This isn’t a museum, Quinn. It’s your home. The sooner you get rid of the ghosts, the better.”

Quinn frowned. If she removed Danse’s things, what the hell was she supposed to do with them? Throw out all his prized possessions? And it wasn’t like she could just load up a car and drive them to Danse. She couldn’t just—

An idea hit her—an idea so obvious, so wonderful, Quinn nearly kicked herself for not thinking of it before. Suppressing her grin, she nodded as she said to Carson, “Fine. Pass me that box.”

Carson picked a blue, plastic crate off the floor and handed it to her.

“Thanks. Can you go take those documents to Elder Maxson?”

“Why? Don’t you want any help?”

“Nah. This is something I have to do alone, I think.” Quinn clapped him on the shoulder. “Time to process it all, y’know?”

Carson’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t argue, and picked the papers up off her desk and left without another word.

Quinn glanced around the room. What things would Danse care about the most? The shot glass and the dog tags seemed to be a given. She had no idea if the glass meant anything to Danse, but the fact the tags were inside it and it was still clean, despite him not drinking anymore said a lot. And there was the book...and what else? There would only be so much she could fit inside her power armour.

She flitted about the room, carefully picking up bits and pieces, books that look well read, the pistol he had been working on, and some of his personal, salvaged tools. Finally, she took down the Brotherhood flag from its pole and folded it neatly, placing it on top of the small hoard she had amassed.

Balancing the box in her arms, she opened her door and ran smack into Elder Maxson, nearly dropping the whole lot on the floor.

“Shit!” Quinn exclaimed, before realising who it was. “I mean, sorry, sir!”

“It’s fine, Paladin.” His eyes flitted to the crate in her arms and he leaned forward. “May I?”

_Ah, fuck._

“Of course, sir. Just...cleaning out the last of the junk from my quarters.”

He lifted the flag and froze. His gaze flicked up to her for a second, and then back down to the book that lay on the very top of the pile. With great care, he lifted it out of the box, his fingers gently running across the title: _The Tales of King Arthur._

Maxson said nothing for a while, simply starting at the object in his hands. Then murmured, “He kept it?”

“Sir?” Quinn said breezily, trying to sound casual when she wanted nothing more than to snatch it from him.

“Your...successor borrowed this from me a great many years ago,” Maxson replied after a few more seconds, still looking fixedly at the book. “And never returned it. I had thought it lost, so you have done me a great service by bringing it into my possession again.” He finally torn his gaze away, and looked back in the box, pulling out the shot glass.

Holding the book under his arm, Maxson carefully turned the glass in his hands, showing a strange interest in the chipped rim, his features suddenly tired and pained. Then he fished the dog tags out and held them up to the light.

“Cutler.” Maxson put the tags in his pocket and gave Quinn a knowing glare. “Tags go to the next of kin. These should never have been kept.”

“Sir,” Quinn said quickly, throwing caution to the wind. If she lost those tags...if Danse never got them back… “Sir, please. Let me keep them. Please.” She lowered her voice. “I’m begging you.”

Maxson didn’t reply at first, his eyes returning to the chipped shot glass, and Quinn thought he was going to change his mind. Then he carefully put the glass back inside the box and pulled the flag back into place, before giving her an ugly look. “I can’t stop you doing this, Paladin, but I won’t let those tags fall into the wrong hands. They deserve to go to his family.”

“He was as good as family, sir,” she said, her desperation mounting.

“No.” He scowled at her, fixing the book under his arm. “I’m disappointed in you. Dismissed.”

He marched past her and back up the stairs, out of sight. There were a thousand things she wanted to call him, the urge to drop the box and chase after the petty prick almost consuming her. Beat some fucking sense into that bigoted little—

Quinn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The tags were gone. So was the book. She wasn’t going to get them back. She wouldn’t be able to take them without Maxson guessing it was her.

_Let it go._

Slowly she opened her eyes again, feeling more upset than angry. She had lost Danse’s two most precious things. Like hell would she lose the third.

Quinn marched across the Prydwen, her box rattling away as she ignored everyone who spoke to her. She stalked past the sickbay without a second glance, past every respectful initiate and saluting scribe. Past each and every patrol.

Past her own set of power armour.

Danse’s waited for her.

* * *

_“And now, another old classic from those rascal boys, The Stanley Brothers…‘Man of Constant Sorrow.’”_

Danse hummed away tunelessly as he worked on his new armour, his tools lined up neatly on the floor on a piece of old cloth. Haylen had left a few days ago, saying she had to go to the police station, but that she’d be back when she could.

He hoped she would return soon. It had been extremely lonely without her.

_“...It's fare thee well my own true lover...I never expect to see you again...For I'm bound to ride that Northern railroad...Perhaps I'll die upon this train…”_

Danse had always liked the Stanley Brothers, even though they weren’t quite as good as Bill Monroe. He hummed louder, tapping his foot on the floor as he inspected the back of his armour, wondering what he could upgrade next.

A sudden grinding noise made him look towards the elevator.

Danse darted over to the radio, turned it off, and then hid around the corner, clutching his screwdriver like a dagger as he crouched with his back against the wall.

His first thought was that Quinn was here, but he knew that was his loneliness speaking. She had done her duty in saving him, and could carry on with her life. Now that she had returned to the Prydwen, he didn’t expect to see her again, not for a long while at least. With the war against the Institute on-going, Quinn would have little time outside of her work, the same as Haylen.

No, more likely this was a raider looking for something to loot. Danse cursed that his gun was on the other side of the room. By the time he had grabbed it, the elevator would be on his floor, and his armour was in pieces.

There was a _ping_ as the doors opened, and Danse tensed, waiting.

* * *

The bunker was abandoned when Quinn stepped out of the elevator. She frowned and glanced around, concerned, before clearing her throat and calling out, “Hello?”

“Quinn?” came Danse’s voice from the back.

“Yeah, it’s just me.”

A slight scuffling noise, and then:

“I’m just by the power armour station. Give me a minute.” His tone sounded suddenly cheerful, completely different from the suspicion that had greeted her only seconds ago.

Quinn smirked. Of course he was tinkering with his new suit. Well now he’d have his old one, too. “I have a surprise for you.”

“That sounds...foreboding.”

Quinn snorted with laughter and stomped around the corner until he came into view. He was fiddling with the back of his _X-01_ series, brow furrowed in concentration as he talked without glancing in her direction. If she didn’t know any better, she would say he was trying to act casual, though the reason why was completely beyond her.

Still, it tickled her. Grinning, Quinn exited his paladin armour and walked around it, leaning against the wall and waiting for him to notice.

It took a whole two minutes before he dragged himself away from his work and looked up.

“...and Haylen put together a radio for me, which means I can...I can…” Danse stopped, screwdriver in hand, staring at the armour behind Quinn.

There was a long quiet, before Danse said with disbelief, “Is that…?”

“They...Maxson made me the new paladin. It’s why I couldn’t get back straight away. But…” Quinn gestured towards Danse’s old set of armour. “He also gave me this. And I knew, after what you said in Goodneighbor, I had to return it to you. Along with everything I could salvage from your room.” She grinned. “Surprise!”

Danse did not respond.

A feeling of discomfort swept over her, and her stomach began to squirm. Had she upset him? Offended him?

“I…” Quinn cleared her throat, and his eyes snapped to her. “I know you said you didn’t want anyone wearing your armour, and in any other circumstance, I wouldn’t have dreamed of putting it on, but I couldn’t think of how else to get it to you.”

Nothing. The awful silence continued as Danse stared at her, so still he looked like a statue. Quinn waited a few seconds longer for him to speak, and when he didn’t she began to babble as panic set in.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked. I should have checked you wanted it. But I thought you might like it, and I wanted to surprise you and I—"

The screwdriver fell from Danse’s fingers with a clatter, his feet kicking through his neat line of tools and bolts, sending them scattering across the floor. Danse didn’t look down, didn’t even notice. He wore an expression so fixed and focused, Quinn felt frozen in place. Within three strides, he had reached her, his hands cupping her face as he leaned in towards her.

Danse hesitated.

His brown eyes, so determined mere seconds ago, now looked startled as Danse suddenly regained his senses. He blinked, staring at her, and then a pink blush crept across his cheeks.

“Um,” said Danse, his breath tickling her lips.

Quinn burst out laughing, and his flush darkened, his hands dropping down as he tried to step away. She gripped his arms, tugging him towards her again, and after a moment felt him hold onto her waist.

Their eyes met, their noses almost touching, and Quinn’s face broke into a wide grin. She let go of Danse as he hesitantly reached up and touched her cheeks. A small smile crossed his mouth.

Quinn slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A summary of my reaction to the two stupids:
> 
> http://quinzelade.tumblr.com/post/143132816200/schweety-reading-a-lenghty-otp-fanfiction-and
> 
> None of you have wanted this as much as I have, I assure you. The amount of self-restraint I've needed with writing this...
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> Just want to go over a few things. I received a couple of reviews across in regards to the drama of my fic. That it's too much, there's too much going on, the characters need to be happier from time to time, and so forth.
> 
> All valid criticism. But at the same time, I wanted to address the comments.
> 
> Drama: this is the wasteland. This is also war. You have multiple characters, all of which serve a purpose of some form in the story I'm telling. I wanted a wasteland that felt richer than the game, so this is a very character-focused story. Because of that, and the aforementioned 'guys we're in an apocalypse' setting, you are going to get clashing drama. All of the drama I have put in has served to build up at least one character in some shape or form. Nearly all of it has been planned out for months. I don't tend to do things to characters on a whim.
> 
> None of them are going to get over any of their issues quickly. That includes not only Quinn and Danse, but the entire cast. I already have a conclusion for every character you have seen in BNC. I'm just not there yet.
> 
> If you are reading this story expecting a quick resolution or instant gratification, then you are very much in the wrong place. This is a long story with deliberately slow pacing.
> 
> Can I learn from the comments I received? Most definitely. I have other works planned after BNC, and I will be taking all the criticism I have gotten on board, and I sincerely thank those of you who have given their opinions and told me what I can do better.
> 
> Can these changes be implemented in BNC?
> 
> In short, no.
> 
> I'm about 75% of the way through now. All of that careful planning has been building up to a purpose. I cannot change the pacing now without derailing the entire story. That may be a fault of my own, but I'm going to take it as a learning curve and work on it for the next story I write.
> 
> So again, if you are here for instant gratification or a quick resolution, or happier characters after the event of Blind Betrayal, then that isn't going to happen. Not immediately, anyway. Characters recover. Characters move on with their lives. But in my mind, that takes time, and I am sticking to my guns for the duration of this story.
> 
> If you're reading this and thinking 'well, that sounds boring and depressing' then this isn't the story for you. And I'm sorry about that! But sadly not every story can be enjoyed by everyone.
> 
> But thankfully, fanfiction is free and plenty, and there are many other stories you can read so you can quickly forget about my silly dramafest fic. :D
> 
> Also, a final disclaimer! I did not write the end of this chapter in response to the criticism I have received. I have had this idea in my head since I started BNC in November last year, and I made sure to stick to it. Believe me, I have been tempted to make it happen earlier on so many occasions, but I'm glad I stuck to my plan.
> 
> Doom and gloom out of the way! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it!


	45. Shell Shocked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An announcement of sorts: I’m gonna be taking a two week hiatus. Thanks to my hands causing all sorts of problems, I’ve fallen behind in my writing to the point where I feel like I’m constantly playing catch up. It’s stressing me out, and it’s causing chapters to be consistently released late, which then sets off my anxiety.
> 
> So I’m going to spend these next two weeks writing without releasing anything. The chapters will be beta’d, so when I do come back there will be the added bonus of having chapters already ready to hand each week.
> 
> If everything goes to plan, I’ll be back on the 24th of September. Thank you for being patient with me, and I’m sorry you’re going to have to wait for the next chapter.

All thought ceased inside Quinn’s head, Danse’s lips against hers the only thing she could focus on. When they broke apart, he seemed dazed, blinking at her like a bright light was shining in his eyes. Then Danse’s brow creased, his intense expression sending a thrill of excitement through her.

He leaned in again, harder this time, and Quinn met him eagerly. Her hand slid up his neck, running through Danse’s hair, fisting it through her fingers. He mirrored her, and she felt a slight jolt as her back hit the wall.

Suddenly, he pulled away, and Quinn knew to let go.

Danse staggered from her, his breath releasing in sharp pants, his eyes locked onto hers. His whole posture screamed of fight or flight, and in that moment, she was sure he would run.

Quinn waited.

To her great surprise, he did not run, but clenched and unclenched his fists, taking deep breaths that tremored through his entire body. He held the air of a man barely keeping himself together, and Quinn knew if she tried to help, he’d only crumble.

Eventually, Danse said, “This doesn’t make any sense.” He shook his head. “After everything the Brotherhood taught you, how could you have feelings for...well, a machine?”

His incredulous tone was not lost on her. Quinn started to take a step toward him, but stopped as he immediately tensed. Instead, she stood on the spot, twisting her fingers together. “You’re not a m—"

“Don’t play semantics with me, Quinn,” Danse interrupted, glaring at her. “I was made. Programmed. And then sent away.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “Just a machine.”

“If you were just a machine, would we even be having this conversation?” Quinn snapped. She wasn’t sure where her ire was coming from. It certainly wasn’t directed at him. But just the very idea that anyone could think Danse was ‘just a machine’—including himself—aggravated something deep within her.

“I...I don’t know.” Danse sighed, still staring at his feet. “I’m not certain what the Institute embedded into my brain to handle things like this.” He paused, and then continued with an edge of bitter mirth, “If I was human, wouldn’t this be a hell of a lot easier?”

Quinn rubbed her forehead. “After the amount of trouble we went through to tell each other how we felt, you think other humans would find this easier?”

Danse’s head jerked up and he frowned at her. “But I’m not—"

“You _are_ human, Danse. I don’t care what you say, you _are._ You’re more human than most people could ever hope to be. The only difference between you and me is a few extra components in your head to do all the organic programming the Institute can’t quite replicate yet.”

“What do you mean...organic programming?”

Quinn shrugged. “Exactly what it says on the tin.”

“The tin?”

She rolled her eyes, grinning despite the serious situation. “Pre-war saying. What I mean is, we’re all programmed in some shape or form. Non-synths...we’re just ‘programmed’ over a longer period of time by the people we meet and the things that happen to us. That’s why humans change as they get older. The fact the Institute did the initial programming for you doesn’t mean shit. You aren’t the same person they made. You aren’t even the same person I met at the police station. You’ve _changed_ in the time I’ve known you.” Quinn shrugged. “So have I.”

“But then the Brotherhood has taught you…”

“You know damn well my interpretation of the Brotherhood’s rules has always been loose at best. And try as they might, there are some things they can never change. How I feel about synths...and how I feel about you.”

Danse looked as if he didn’t know what to do with this information.

Quinn studied him for a second and then smiled, though her heart sank. “If you’re not ready for this, or you don’t want it, then that’s fine. I’m sorry for pushing you into—"

No.” Danse looked very serious again. He stepped forward and took hold of her hands, and then blinked, his cheeks flushing. But he stayed where he was and squeezed her fingers regardless. “You didn’t push me into anything. I wanted…”

Danse sighed and bowed his head for a moment, and glanced up at her again.

“Look...I’m not going to lie to you. You’re going to have to be patient with me. Coming to terms with these...well, human feelings is going to be a very difficult journey. But if we can tackle those obstacles together, I think that this relationship could last a very long time.”

He hesitated, his face now scarlet, and then quickly added, “I mean, if you want—"

His words were cut off as Quinn raised his hand and kissed his fingers, giving him a nod. He looked surprised, but also pleased. Then she stepped forward and hugged him, burying her face into his chest.

_‘Human feelings.’_

Quinn decided not to challenge him. Whatever he was working through, it was more than she could ever comprehend. So long as she was there to support him, that was all that mattered.

Danse’s voice broke her deep thought.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but...that...um...that means yes?”

Quinn burst out laughing. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, and saw traces of embarrassment in his face. Yet still he waited for an answer.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “That was my way of saying yes.”

“Is giving a verbal answer a lost art?” Danse grumbled, but he his delight was obvious. They stared at each other for what felt like an age; she couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Her heart was racing, but it wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

Finally, in an attempt to break the silence, Quinn tore her gaze away from him and directed it to his armour in the corner.

“So...you don’t mind that I had to wear it, then?” She turned back to him, and Danse slowly let go of her.

“No, I don’t mind,” Danse said, rolling his eyes. “I thought that was perfectly obvious.”

 _“Is giving a verbal answer a lost art?”_ Quinn mimicked, deepening her voice and pulling an exaggerated scowl. He tugged her close, kissing the top of her head.

“I never thought I would see it again,” he mumbled into her hair, his grip suddenly tight. “That you brought it back...”

His voice trailed away, and they stood in silence again, Quinn basking in the warmth of Danse’s embrace. How she had _missed_ this.

Eventually, she said, “There’s more, y’know.”

Danse glanced down at her. “More?”

He sounded so hopeful, Quinn felt her chest tighten. She had lost the tags and the book. Still, she stepped out of the hug and forced a smile. “I couldn’t get everything, but...well, come and see.”

Eyes lit with curiosity, Danse followed Quinn across the room to his armour, and watched as she carefully removed the bundle she had stowed away inside. She set it on the floor, and they sat next to each other while she unwrapped the parcel.

As Quinn expected, brutal disappointment crossed his face when Danse realised the tags and the book were missing. The pain turned hollow as she explained Maxson’s actions, and he simply nodded and didn’t ask any questions.

The rest of the items, however, Danse pawed over with great interest, the first of which was the old shot glass with a chip in the rim. Again, he said nothing, simply holding it cupped in his hands the way a child might hold a small, delicate animal, staring intently at it. Then he set it down with the utmost of care and turned his attention to the gun that had been on his desk in the Prydwen. Danse smiled and picked it up, turning it over and observing it under the lights of the bunker, rubbing away a smear of oil from the barrel with his thumb.

The rifle she had made him was amongst the collection, and he showed particular relief in seeing it again. Danse checked over every inch of it to make sure it wasn’t damaged, and then gave her a grateful look.

Quinn smiled. According to the scribes who worked in the armour shop, Danse had left the weapon by his armour when he’d first arrived back on the Prydwen, and hadn’t returned to collect it. It had ended up cleared away into one of the many crates in the workshop, and had taken her hours to locate the damn thing. No one had questioned her when she had claimed the gun as her own. After all, everything that had been Danse’s now belonged to her.

Danse went through the other articles in front of him without comment, even tracing the frayed edges of his Brotherhood flag on which everything was laid, before finally picking up the last item. Danse frowned.

 _“Selected Poems of the World Wars,”_ he read aloud, and then shot Quinn a confused look. “Where did you find this? This...this isn’t mine.”

“I know.” Quinn fidgeted, staring at her knees. “After I...your book. When I couldn’t bring back your book...I spoke to Stephen Cooper and he gave me one of the spare books from the Brotherhood archives. They had multiple copies of that, so I was allowed to keep it…” She shrugged. “It was my fault I lost your two most important possessions. So I wanted to give you something to make up for that, I guess. I know it’s not as good as—"

Her words were cut as Danse set down the book and hugged her.

“Thank you,” he said, holding her tight. When he let go, she saw he was smiling.

“I’m sorry that I—" she tried again.

 _“Thank you,”_ Danse repeated, more pointedly this time. Quinn hesitated, confused.

“But I—"

 _“Quinn.”_ His eyes trailed over the collection of trinkets she had brought him, a magpie’s hoard for the world-weary soldier, and picked up her book. “You’ve given me a gift, something with thought behind it. Something with so much history in its pages, with so many things I know I’ll understand.” Danse placed the book down next to the shot glass, and took hold of her hand, squeezing it.

Quinn stared at their hands and then back at Danse. He looked apprehensive, as if worried he’d gone too far. Licking her lips, she shuffled forward and leaned toward him. Danse blinked at her, before realising what she was doing, and with only the slightest of awkward pauses, he reciprocated.

This kiss was less smooth, more bumping of noses and a miss of their mouths. Quinn giggled and pushed herself up onto her knees, meeting him properly, and soon all nerves were forgotten.

* * *

Danse stared up at the ceiling wondering—no, _dreading_ —when he was going to wake up.  A cliché, perhaps, but still true. The happiness throbbing in his chest wasn’t real. The woman in his arms wasn’t there. When he woke up, they would be gone. This couldn’t have happened to _him._ A machine didn’t deserve this kind of luck.

After a few gentle kisses—well, more than a few—Danse had eventually returned to tweaking his new power armour, with Quinn helping him. But try as he might, he hadn’t been able to concentrate, his attention drifting back to her so often he hammered three large, separate dents into the casing of his chest plate. She had laughed that typical cheerful laugh, the one she reserved for when he did something stupid, and suggested he go to bed.

That in itself had presented a problem. The two salvaged single beds were side by side, close, but not touching. Quinn had shot a mischievous grin and asked if she could join him.

The obvious answer was yes, but the question took him by such surprise that he fumbled his words into an agonising silence. Quinn had looked worried. This was new territory for both of them, darting around barriers and limits like soldiers picking through the No Man’s Land of France, but for Danse, actions were always easier than words. He had strode across the room and pushed the two beds together, hoping she would understand his intent.

She had.

Now he was lying with Quinn against his chest, unable to stop looking at her.

This was real. _She_ was real. And she wasn’t repulsed by him, wasn’t bothered that he wasn’t a proper person. Quinn wanted him regardless. Danse couldn’t understand it, but he wasn’t about to question it either. He only prayed she wouldn’t come to her senses later down the line.

Danse sighed. So, he had been reduced to _this:_ hoping Quinn didn’t use her better judgement.

If she hadn’t been splayed out on top of him, fast asleep, he would have moved away from her. The happiness he had been feeling all evening was slowly draining away, clearing his head as anxiety and doubts took its place. Danse gritted his teeth, shifting slightly on the bed. All he wanted was just one day of peace. One day of not over-thinking or worrying. One day of just enjoying—

Quinn jerked awake so sharply she made him jump. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and Danse propped himself up, frowning.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, watching her carefully.

“Yeah,” Quinn said sleepily, flopping back down so recklessly she nearly headbutted his nose. She looked up at him, and without warning, kissed him. As she broke away, she mumbled, “You’re here. Everything is perfect.”

Then a second later, she was asleep again.

Danse blinked at her and carefully lowered himself down onto his back, making sure not to disturb her again. All at once, his worries seemed trivial. He studied her face and smiled.

Quinn was here. Everything was perfect.

* * *

Danse wasn’t sure when he drifted off to sleep, but the nightmares greeted him as he slipped from consciousness. The same tired events played out in his head, familiar faces...familiar ghosts. Cold disapproval from Krieg. Cutler’s last moments in fine detail.

He woke with a gasp, his body shuddering, and clamped his arms down around something warm and firm, clutching at fabric beneath his trembling fingers.

“Hey…” said a voice.

A sharp intake of breath marked his place in reality. He was awake, and Quinn…

Danse turned his head and saw he had pinned her to his chest. She looked up at him, and the moment he released her, she propped herself up and shifted herself closer to him. He turned on his side and tried to speak, to apologise for holding her too tight, when she touched his face.

“Hey…” she said again gently. Quinn caressed his face with one hand, the other using the cuff of her sleeve to dab at the sweat on his face. “It’s over. I’m here.” She planted a soft kiss on his forehead and lay down beside him, her thumb slowly tracing circles on his jaw. “I’m here.”

Normally her touch would calm him down, but he could feel something twisting within him, and realised he was slipping back. Danse placed his hand over hers, feeling the warmth of her skin, and then moved her so that her fingers pressed against his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut, the tremors rippling through him again, and knew he was about to experience hell.

Quinn grabbed the back of his clothes, tugging him toward her, and Danse obeyed. He buried himself into her body, his hands grasping at her as the aftermath came. The panic. The flashbacks. The unending string of painful memories.

Only they _did_ end. And when he returned from the past, Quinn was still there, holding him tight.

His body settled, and slowly Quinn let go, smoothing back his hair, frowning. Then she stood up from the bed and walked away without another word.

Danse laid on his back and covered his eyes with the crook of his arm, sighing. Now he’d done it. Things were supposed to be happy. Things were supposed to be _better._ All he’d managed to prove was that he’d always be a broken mess. Clattering in the other parts of the bunker confirmed his fears. She was leaving.

_At least I had one night by her side. At least I had the chance to kiss her._

But then footsteps sounded as Quinn approached him. Danse didn’t dare look at her. She dropped something on the bed with a muted thud, and then walked around to him, crouching down and sweeping back his hair again.

“Are you awake?” she asked.

Danse gave a slow nod.

“Can you sit up?”

He paused, confused. That didn’t sound like a question she would ask if she was about to go.

Without waiting for him to answer, Quinn grabbed his arms and began tugging at him, urging him to move. “Come on. Sit up.”

Too bewildered to resist, Danse did as he was told, his arm falling to his side as he moved. Quinn helped him up, leaning over and grabbing one of the pillows she had taken from another part of the room, and wedged it behind him. A blanket followed, which she tucked deftly around his body, leaving his arms free. Then she made her way back around her side and climbed onto the bed, producing a bottle of water. She unscrewed the lid and passed it over, sitting crossed legged next to him while he drank.

Danse didn’t know what to think. He finished his water, his thoughts muddled, half enjoying being fussed over, half wary of it. Did she think he wasn’t capable of looking after himself?

“How are you feeling?” Quinn asked, taking the empty bottle and throwing it over her shoulder without looking.

He considered the question, and after a moment replied, “Better.” And to his surprise, this was the absolute truth. He _did_ feel better.

She smiled at him. “Anything I can do to help?”

“I...um…” His face felt hot again, but images of that quiet hour before he had fallen asleep were surfacing in his mind. Selfish thoughts, but something he was desperate for. “I...I feel like being...close to you right now.”

Her smile widened. “Good answer.”

Quinn lifted the blanket and slipped under it, next to him. He put his arm around her, pulling her near, astounded by how natural the whole thing felt.

Danse tilted his head, staring down at her, while she gazed back up at him, and a staggering realisation hit him. He finally accepted it, finally accepted what she had been trying to tell him for months.

Quinn wasn’t going anywhere.

* * *

By the time morning arrived, Quinn still wasn’t going anywhere. She clung to him, nuzzling into his neck and pressing soft kisses on his collarbone whenever he made a half-hearted attempt to get up.

Danse didn’t mind. He was quite content to lie there, tangled in blankets, Quinn’s body draped across his own. His hand played lazily with her hair, and occasionally he pretended to be annoyed that she was keeping him in the bed, which only made her giggle. It was a sound he craved, sweet and light and everything he adored.

“I suppose I better move,” Quinn said after a while, her voice muffled by his clothes.

“I suppose you better,” Danse responded, and as she gave him a worried glance, he pulled her up toward him and kissed her.

He wasn’t sure where _that_ bold move had come from, but Danse decided not to dwell on it for the time being. Whatever was happening to him, he liked it. He couldn’t get enough of her. The feel of her. The taste of her. Quinn’s lips against his was the most incredible thing he’d ever experienced, and yet he didn’t know why. Maybe that was the point.

This continued for some time, neither of them able to settle down long enough to let go of each other. Only when Danse’s leg went numb from Quinn’s weight did he realise how long they’d been there.

“Breakfast, I think,” said Quinn, groaning as she got to her feet and stretched. She glanced at her Pip-Boy and grinned. “Or maybe lunch instead.”

Danse watched her while she pottered about the boxes of food they’d salvaged from the bunker’s stores, pulling out preserved tins and setting them out on the defunct consoles. He barely listened as she suggested they head down to Diamond City today, because she wanted to speak to the detective.

Slowly, Danse stood up and walked over to her, slipping his arms around her from behind and kissing her neck. Quinn stopped what she was doing and leaned back into him, before turning around and meeting him properly.

All of a sudden, it occurred to him that he kept interrupting her and dragging her attention back to him, like some sort of needy teenager. Feeling embarrassed, he pulled away. “Sorry. I’ll stop pester—”

Quinn silenced him with another kiss. “You’re not pestering me. This is long overdue.”

“I...uh…” He gave her a nervous smile. “I won’t argue with that.”

“Arguing with me is pointless.”

Danse laughed. “Don’t I know it.”

* * *

A few more hours passed before Quinn and Danse left the bunker to head over to Diamond City. They probably could have gone sooner, but for one reason or another, they had been...delayed.

However, the warm glow Quinn held within her had been somewhat disturbed since they had left the bunker. The niggling doubts she’d had about how Danse was handling his exile from the Brotherhood were starting to accumulate.

Her first worry had been when they had made the initial assault on _35 Court,_ and a vertibird had flown over. He hadn’t so much as flinched, completely unconcerned by Brotherhood presence being so close to them. The next had been when he’d spoken of his armour in the Goodneighbor Hotel.

_“The Brotherhood doesn’t waste resources. That armour will be given to someone else. My replacement. Or repainted and issued to one of our new recruits.”_

‘Our’ new recruits.

Still, Quinn had hoped he was just putting on a brave face, and even when he’d introduced himself as ‘Paladin Danse’ to MacCready, she thought he was just having difficulty letting go of his old habits.

Now Quinn wasn’t so sure.

He had been oddly cheerful ever since they had left the bunker, opting to travel in his Brotherhood armour and his old laser rifle, despite Quinn pointing out that someone other than herself in paladin armour looked suspicious. Danse had laughed it off. She couldn’t see his face, but by the tone of his voice, she suspected he was grinning.

Finally, when they reached an old truck stop and decided to give it a quick look over, Quinn began to feel downright uncomfortable. As she unearthed a selection of scrap, Danse chimed in with, “We should keep hold of that. The Brotherhood could use it.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, wondering if she was just being paranoid. Maybe he meant for _her_ to take it back to the Brotherhood, but just wasn’t choosing his words properly. But then there was the use of ‘we,’ including himself in the circle that he had been exiled from.

Quinn decided to hold her tongue. Whatever was going through his head right now, Danse seemed happy. She didn’t want to spoil that. Instead, she distracted herself by throwing glances at him when she was sure he wasn’t looking. She couldn’t see his face behind his helmet, but it didn’t matter. He was there, and they had _kissed._

Quinn felt giddy at the memory. And the way it had happened...she had never expected Danse to take the first step like that. The thought alone of the look on his face when he’d walked towards her was enough to make her shiver with excitement.

She must have made a noise without realising, because Danse turned to look at her.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” said Quinn, giving him a sly look. “Just thinking about kissing you. That’s all.”

“I...uh…” Danse coughed. “Um…”

A beat of silence.

“Me too.”

“Plenty of time for it when we get to Diamond City then,” Quinn said, grinning at the thought of him getting flustered behind his helmet. “Hopefully Piper won’t mind us crashing at her place.”

“Piper’s?” Danse stopped dead in the street.

“Yeah.” Quinn frowned at him. “Is there a problem?”

“Just…” He shifted on the spot. “I’m not…I don’t know if…”

A few moments passed before she realised what he was getting at. “You don’t want Piper to know we’re together?”

Together. How strange that sounded.

Danse nodded. “I just…if we go there, she’ll _know.”_

“So?”

Her response caught him off-guard. He stared at her for a few seconds, lost for words, and then tried again. “Please, Quinn. I’m not ready for…” He stopped, his fingers tapping nervously on his rifle.

Quinn considered him for a moment and then smiled. “We need to stay somewhere tonight, but if it bothers you that much, how about this? We’ll go to Piper’s, but we’ll act like we normally do. Like we’re just friends. Okay?”

“That’s not my preference,” Danse said slowly, “but for one night, I can...tolerate it.”

“Can’t win ‘em all, Danse.”

* * *

“But they’ll _know.”_

“So?”

Nate glanced down at his wife, chewing his lip. She looked back up at him, an eyebrow raised. He was half tempted to give a sarcastic response, but he bit it back and sighed, staring at the wall opposite him instead. It was one thing for Quinn to know about his troubles, but total strangers?

It had all started with a letter in the mail.

Letters _never_ arrived for him in the mail anymore. Who did he have to talk to? His friends were dead or still on tour, and the living had more important things to think about than a broken soldier they used to know.

He’d left it on the side by the fridge, deciding ignorance was better than acknowledgement. Even when Quinn had pointed it out to him, he’d skirted around the subject, saying he’d read it later.

Nate wasn’t sure why he thought that would work.

Quinn had presented it at dinner, after Shaun had been put to bed, while she was serving out the vegetables. She’d smiled her knowing smile, and then sat with him at the table, waiting. Nate had slowly worked his way through his meal, making idle chatter and looking anywhere but Quinn and the letter, until eventually he had to admit defeat.

The envelope was light and smooth, sealed with tape, crisp and clean. Nate turned it over in his hands several times, and then opened it.

An invitation.

“It’ll do you good,” Quinn said, bringing him back to her with a bump. She pulled the bed sheets up a little higher and snuggled into his chest, trailing a finger slowly against his skin. “You’ve been making such great progress. The doctor said so. You could help other people.”

“I don’t want to help other people,” Nate replied, scowling.

Christ, that sounded awful.

“Sorry, I just…” He kneaded his forehead with his free hand. “I want to focus on getting better, not putting out my worst nightmares for reporters and philanthropists to lap up at some veterans event.”

Quinn sat up and kissed his cheek.

“It’s fine.” She kissed him again. “You aren’t here for the benefit of other people. But if you want to do it, I’m sure your experiences could help soldiers who are hiding their condition. Let them know they’re not alone, and that they can talk about it. And let everyone else know what is happening to the people who fight for them. That’s all.”

Nate kissed the top of her head as she settled down into his arms again, his stomach tight, his heart racing.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. And he meant it.

* * *

Quinn was jolted awake as Danse’s arms clamped tight around her. She could feel him shuddering, his breath hard against the back of her neck. She stroked his knuckles until he loosened his hold on her, and then turned around, peppering soft kisses on his face. Danse closed his eyes, running a hand through her hair as he calmed himself, and then opened them again, looking tired.

“I keep waking you,” he said, his voice little more than a croak.

“Well then, at least I have a handsome face to greet me,” Quinn replied, and smirked as she felt his cheeks grow hot beneath her fingers. She kissed his nose. “Try to go back to sleep.”

Danse nodded and laid back down, and Quinn turned over, pressing her back against his chest as his arm draped lazily over her.

He fell asleep within minutes, his breathing becoming heavy and slow, and Quinn couldn’t help but be pleased. Even with his nightmares, Danse was willing to go back to sleep these days. She didn’t care what the reason was anymore; the result was the same.

Quinn herself was now wide awake, though. The sofa in Piper’s house wasn’t the most comfortable place, but Quinn would be damned before she passed up the chance to be close to Danse. It had taken some convincing to get him there, though. He had kept his distance from her while Piper had been with them, and even after Piper had gone to bed, he’d had his reservations about sharing the sofa.

He’d relented on the condition of being woken up before Piper came downstairs, and had still jumped every time Piper had rolled over in her sleep. Quinn didn’t know why he was so worried about her friends—no, _their_ friends—knowing, but she was willing to leave it for the time being. Compared to everything else going on, it was a non-issue.

As she lay with Danse, Nate slowly drifted back into her thoughts. The old, familiar guilt settled in the pit of her stomach. She’d dreamed about him again, for the first time since Goodneighbor. And it was nothing horrible, nothing evil. Just them, in sweet mediocrity. Would Danse be upset to know she still missed him? Would Nate be hurt that she’d found someone else?

Quinn let the questions scratch at her skull for a few seconds, before quashing them. Of course Danse wouldn’t be upset. He would understand, the way he always had. He would be patient, would ask if he could help, respect her if she needed space.

And Nate...there was no point torturing herself with how he ‘might’ feel if he could see her now. He was dead. He couldn’t hurt. He couldn’t do anything. He was never coming back. He’d loved her and Shaun more than himself. He had only ever wanted her to be happy.

And she _was_ happy.

Something tickled Quinn’s cheeks, and she realised there were tears sliding down them. Trembling slightly, she tugged Danse’s arm up and clutched at it like a child holding a teddy bear, trying to cry quietly. He made a slight grumbling noise, half-asleep, and then pulled her close, clumsily kissing the back of her head. A few moments later, he was snoring into her hair.

Despite herself, Quinn giggled.

It was going to be alright. She was going to be alright.

* * *

“So, wait, you guys escaped a deathclaw?” Piper asked through a mouthful of cake.

She and Danse had been swapping stories for the last hour while Quinn ran a few errands around Diamond City. The story of the first deathclaw he had ‘fought’ with Quinn had Piper entranced.

“Uh,” said Danse, watching as Piper swallowed her food, before sticking her hand straight back into the box of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes on her lap. She pulled one out, unwrapped it, and ate it whole, chewing loudly as she watched him with rapt attention. How the woman could fit that much cake in her mouth at once was beyond him.

“Well,” he tried again, doing everything he could not to be distracted by Piper’s phenomenal snack intake, “we just got out of its line of sight and crept into the training ground building. It did follow us inside eventually, and we had to block its way with a magnetic gate, but initially stealth was what saved us.”

“But you’re so...clanky.” Piper peered into the box and pulled out a small, ugly toy in the shape of a cat with an oversized head. Danse thought it looked like it had a head tumour. She set it down on the table next to an entire army of the appalling things, and shoved her hand back into the box. Seconds later, she was talking through cake again. “Why didn’t it hear you?”

“I can be quiet when necessary,” Danse replied, somewhat offended at being called ‘clanky.’ He paused and then added, “And its hearing might have been affected by the exploding car that landed on it thanks to Quinn’s grenades.”

“Knew it,” Piper said, grinning. She stared at him, her eyes taking on a mischievous gleam that Danse didn’t like. He sensed she was tired of stories and had other topics in mind. “Glad you two could visit, at any rate. So you finally took the plunge and asked her out?”

“What?” Danse could feel his face getting hot. “No, we’re not—I’m just—I didn’t—"

“Calm down, soldier boy,” Piper said, setting down the cake box and stretching out in her chair. “You’ve gone from barely contained sexual tension to deliberately keeping apart. Either you’re annoyed at each other or…”

His face was now burning like a fire. Danse hung his head.

“Hey, you okay?” He heard Piper sit up in her chair. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just think it’s cute, that’s all.”

He risked a glance up and saw she was watching him with concern.

“I’m fine.” Danse gave a little shrug, trying to pretend he wasn’t bothered, though his molten face said otherwise. “Just...I don’t like talking about myself.” He dropped his eyes to the floor again. “But...yes. You’re right. I suppose there’s no point hiding it if we’re that obvious.”

“You’re good for each other, Danse.”

Danse stole another look at Piper and saw she was smiling. After making sure she wasn’t laughing at him, he gave a small smile back.

Piper beamed and then stood up, dusting cake crumbs off herself. “Anyway, you’re gonna have to share Blue with me today. She’s promised me a girly trip around town, and I’m a sucker for that.”

Piper gave him a wink and then walked upstairs, clattering loudly around her bed. Danse listened for a while and then leaned over, picking up her discarded box of snack cakes. He glanced up, making sure she wasn’t coming back down, and then over to the door. Quinn still hadn’t returned.

Danse stuck his arm inside the box, and pulled a Fancy Lad Snack Cake out, frowning. This one was missing its plastic wrapping, and yet he craved it all the same. He hadn’t been this tempted by something since he had given up drinking. Hesitating only for a moment, Danse shoved it whole inside his mouth.

He chewed quickly, but whatever abilities Piper had that allowed her to eat an ungodly level of food all at once, he did not possess. Almost immediately, Danse began to choke, and nearly spat soggy cake all down himself as he dropped the box, ran into the kitchen, and grabbed the nearest bottle of water.

“Everything alright?” Piper called from upstairs.

“Fine!” Danse wheezed, forcing the rest of the cake down between precious gulps of water.

Piper hurried downstairs and stopped dead in the centre of the room, eyeing the damning evidence of split snack cakes all over the floor and the water he’d sloshed down his front. There was a few beats of silence, and then she burst out into hysterical laughter.

She was still laughing when Quinn returned, and gasped out an explanation, while Danse scowled at her from the kitchen, the empty bottle still clutched in his hands. Soon Quinn was laughing too, but when she saw the glare on his face, she walked over, grinning.

“Piper knows,” Danse said, in an effort to change the subject.

“Oh?” Quinn turned to Piper, who shrugged.

“You’re both kinda obvious, Blue.”

“Well then.” Quinn looked back at Danse. “That means I can do this.”

Without warning, she hugged him, and some of his annoyance disappeared.

“Sorry for laughing at you,” she said, a smirk still playing on her lips.

“It’s fine,” he huffed, and when she hugged him again, the irritation left completely. As they broke apart, he spied Piper picking up the cakes and shoving them straight back into the box. A nasty suspicion that the snack cake he’d just eaten wasn’t exactly clean crept up on him, but before he could dwell on it, Piper spoke.

“So, what’s the plan today, Blue? We bringing Danse shopping with us?”

Quinn suddenly looked apprehensive, and she shot him a nervous look. “Can I speak with Danse alone a moment, please?”

Piper frowned as she scooped up the last of the wayward cakes, and set the box on the table next to her ugly toys. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just...please.”

Piper nodded, looking concerned, but left the house without comment.

Quinn turned back to Danse, and he couldn’t help but note how pale she’d gone. He touched her cheek, a knot of worry in his stomach, and waited for her to talk. But it soon twisted into anger as she dropped her bombshell.

“Danse...I’ve set you up a meeting with Nick Valentine. You guys need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else hates the fact Danse continues to talk like he's still in the Brotherhood after Blind Betrayal? I know I do.


	46. Old World Blues

Danse couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A string of slurried excuses and explanations were leaving Quinn’s lips, but it all amounted to the same thing: she was trying to force him to talk to the detective. She had approached that _thing_ without bothering to ask him about it first.

Wrenching himself free of her grip, Danse stormed across the room, so furious he could barely think straight. He didn’t care that he was being a hypocrite. After all, he was a thing too. But just because they were both machines didn’t mean he wanted to talk to it. If anything, talking to _it_ would only make him feel worse. That synth looked so... _inhuman._

“I never thought you’d do something like this to me,” he snarled, rounding on her so suddenly she shied away from him. Danse felt a twinge of guilt at alarming her, but it was quickly replaced by disgust. _She_ had made this happen. _She_ had caused this. “Was this your plan all along? Drag me all the way to Diamond City so you could shut me in a room with that synth?”

“No, Danse,” Quinn said, hurrying after him, but stopping short as his glare deepened. She looked on the verge of tears. “It’s not like that. I’ve asked Nick to speak with you, but if you can’t do it, I’m not going to make you. I just think you _should.”_

“Why the hell would I want to talk to it?”

“Don’t call him an ‘it,’” Quinn said sharply, wearing a scowl of her own. “But that’s precisely why you need to speak to Nick. Because you keep calling synths ‘it.’ Because you keep acting like synths aren’t people. Because you keep acting like _you_ aren’t a person.”

“Quinn, we’ve been over this—"

“Yes, we have. And it’s accomplished _fuck all.”_

She folded her arms tight, but there was no anger in her. Instead, she looked worried and alone, holding herself for comfort. All at once, Danse wanted embrace her and take away her concern, but the fury still burned within him, and so he kept his distance.

An uncomfortable silence lingered between them for a while, until Quinn said, “Nick is the only man I know who could even begin to understand what you’ve been through. You need help, and I can’t provide it for you. So please talk to him. For me.”

“Don’t,” Danse snapped, his anger flaring up again. “Don’t do that. Don’t try to guilt me into getting what you want.”

“I’m not—" Quinn began, but she stopped, biting her lip. Then she nodded. “Alright. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...I’m sorry. I’ll go tell Nick that I made a mistake. I’m sure he’s busy with cases today anyway.”

“You do that.” He picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder as he stalked past his power armour. “I’m going for a walk. Have fun with Piper.”

Quinn didn’t reply to this, but he could feel her eyes on him as he yanked open the front door and went outside. Piper jumped so hard she nearly dropped her cigarette.

“Is everything—?”

“She’s all yours,” Danse interrupted, and then strode off down the street, seething. Piper didn’t try to stop him, which was probably for the best. He might have bitten her head off if she tried to argue with him. Let Quinn explain why he was in such a bad mood.

Bitter thoughts raced around his head as he marched through the town centre, ignoring every smartass comment from the guards and braver citizens about him needing to ‘lighten up.’ Danse trudged up the old stands, far out of the way of the marketplace, and sat down, glaring at the city below.

He’d come here once before, when Quinn had done something else to anger him. A crass comment about Cutler. But then she’d apologised, and their stupid bottle throwing competition had followed, ending in chaos. His lips twitched at the memory, but then Danse shook his head and glared. No. Fond recollections couldn’t overwrite this slight. She had overstepped the mark. Gone behind his back. Tried to...tried to help him.

Danse sighed and put his head in his hands, clutching at his hair. Just like his previous visit to this secluded spot, he wanted a drink. God, he _wanted_ a drink.

But no. Maxson had seen to it that he wouldn’t drink another drop. Maxson, who had made sure Danse understood his limits.

Maxson, who he would never see again.

Danse directed his attention to the centre of town, eyeing up the various stalls. He had caps on him. All he would have to do is stroll down there, order a beer, and that would be that. It wasn’t like vodka or other spirits. One beer wouldn’t hurt. One beer wouldn’t make him drunk. He could handle that. He could control his drinking. And Quinn didn’t really know about his old problems. Maybe she suspected, but she likely didn’t care. She was borderline alcoholic herself. Although…

Danse frowned, lying on his back so he wouldn’t have to look at the source of his temptation. When was the last time Quinn had been drunk? She’d had a beer when they’d been in Goodneighbor, but that was it. Normally she hit the whiskey instead. Come to think of it, the last time he had seen her drink something hard was the day before the funeral, and it had only been one shot of Bowmore.

He considered this for a moment and then glanced back down towards the town centre. Danse had seen plenty of soldiers trying to rationalise their bad drinking with ‘just one beer.’ Proctor Teagan was well known for it. ‘Only’ beer. ‘Only’ wine. And it always led down the same slippery slope. A visit to Cade’s office. The old disciplinary programme. Danse had escaped it by the skin of his teeth, thanks to Maxson, but now he was out here, away from the ship. One slip and he might never come back.

Danse rolled over onto his side, staring at the cement that made the stands. Quinn had only been trying to help. Maybe not in the best way, but she had meant well. She had been doing it for him. And when he said no, she had let it go.

Talking to the synth, though?

That felt like a step too far. The synth—the detective—it just looked so...mechanical. Seeing it before Danse learned the truth had made him feel uncomfortable at the best of times. Now the very thought of the detective made Danse’s skin crawl. Was that what he looked like underneath, too? Quinn said no, that he, Danse, was purely organic, with a few extra bits and pieces in his head...but what if she was wrong?

Danse rolled over again and stared out to the city below, though he was too deep in thought to see. At least Quinn gave him an option with facing his troubles. Back on the Prydwen, he had all but forced her to go to Cade. Taken her off duty. Reported her. Left her alone in the aftermath.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, groaning. The reasons had been good, but…

Half an hour passed, Danse’s thoughts running in circles, until eventually he sat up, shaking his head. None of this mattered. He wasn’t going. He _wasn’t._

Standing up, Danse shouldered his rifle and headed down the stands and back towards town. He still didn’t want to run into Quinn, but wallowing in the same old worries made him want a drink even more. Better to keep moving. Better not to think.

But as he trailed through the town, his feet kept bringing him to one particular spot. At first Danse thought he was simply getting lost in this ratrun of a city and ignored it. But when the tacky red lights reflected off his weapon for the sixth time that morning, Danse realised he was returning of his own accord. He glared at the awful sign for the Valentine Detective Agency, his heart hammering in his chest.

_She was only trying to help._

Danse sighed. Whether he liked it or not, Quinn’s idea was a good one. He was a machine. The detective was a machine. It might understand where Quinn could not. The very thought of this meeting made him feel sick, but that didn’t detract from its worth, only his own character.

How long he stood outside the agency, Danse didn’t know. He needed to get this over with, but something held him back.

_Fear,_ he realised. _I’m afraid._

_Pathetic._

Wearing a deep scowl, Danse strode forward and shoved the door open.

* * *

“Did I do the right thing, Piper?”

Piper glanced up from an old Boston Bugle she had been reading, her scrawled notes and circles all over the page, and took her pen out of her mouth. “What?”

“Trying to get Danse to talk to Nick.” Quinn played with the fabric of her pants. “Was that the right thing to do?”

“Well…” Piper folded up her newspaper and tucked her pen into her hat. “You probably could have handled it better.”

“I knew it,” Quinn sighed, sinking into her seat.

“Keep still or you'll end up with half your hair missing,” her hairdresser, John, said, holding his scissors aloft.

“Sorry,” said Quinn. Piper had convinced Quinn to get the unruly mop that was her hair trimmed, and she’d dragged Quinn to Diamond City’s Super Salon to do it.

“I just think you should have asked him first,” said Piper, reopening her paper and shrugging. “But he'll cool off eventually and you can talk about it then.”

“Maybe…” Quinn sighed again and John grumbled, moving her head back into position before continuing cutting. “Sorry.”

She let her thoughts drift away as John snipped and tugged at her hair. The man had nearly had an aneurysm when Piper had presented her to him, and Quinn had been too disheartened to argue.

Upsetting Danse had been the last thing she wanted to do, but in all her haste to help him, Quinn realised she hadn’t taken his feelings into consideration at all. Sure, she had expected him to grumble, maybe be a little bit annoyed, but nothing like _this._ Clearly Quinn didn’t know him as well as she thought she did, and that in itself stung.

Somehow, she had to make it up to him. Exactly _how_ she would do this, Quinn had no idea.

_I’ll figure something out._

Fifteen minutes later, feeling thoroughly trimmed and already missing the blonde explosion that had been her hair, Quinn got out of the seat, running her hand through her new bob cut.

“This feels weird,” she grumbled, while Piper rolled her eyes.

“You look less like a chem-crazed raider and more like a human being. I think that’s a plus.” Piper gave John a handful of caps and a shy smile. “Now come on. Let’s get some noodles.”

“You’re not getting your hair done?” Quinn asked, and at once Piper went as red as her coat.

“Nah. Haircuts aren’t really my thing.”

“But—"

_“Come on.”_ Piper grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away.

Quinn frowned and glanced over her shoulder at John, who was watching Piper with a small smile, his cheeks slightly pink. Something clunked into place.

“Oh,” said Quinn, turning back to Piper, who was determinedly not looking at her. A sly grin spread across Quinn’s face. _“Oh.”_

“Shut up, Blue,” Piper muttered, pulling Quinn around the other side of the noodle bar, so the Super Salon was blocked from view.

“You should ask him out on a date.”

_“Shh!”_ Piper hissed, throwing a look around the noodle bar to the salon. “He’ll hear you!”

“Piper, he’s on the other side of the market place.”

“If someone else overhears you...this is the kind of gossip that could end up in _The Publick!”_

“But _you_ write _The Publick.”_

Piper didn’t respond to this, instead waving down Takahashi and avoiding Quinn’s mischievous eye as the robot stomped over.

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?” Takahashi asked.

“The usual, please,” Piper said, as if Takahashi had anything other than noodles to offer. The robot delivered their food within minutes, and both of them quickly tucked in, Piper hiding her face behind her hand. Quinn smirked for a little while, but her thoughts quickly returned to Danse. She wanted to go after him when he stormed off, but Piper stopped her.

_“He needs some space, Blue. He’ll come back when he’s ready to talk again.”_

Maybe. But Quinn still didn’t like leaving him on his own. Not at the moment, with everything so hectic. Overprotective, Piper called it. And perhaps it was. So Quinn had let him be.

However, just as Quinn reached the end of her meal, a voice behind her said something that made her stomach drop.

“Good morning, ma’am!”

Quinn froze.

No. No, no, no. They couldn’t be here. _Why_ were they here? What possible reason could they have for…?

Slowly, Quinn turned around, and thought she might faint.

Standing at attention behind her was Initiate Núñez, along with a group of other Brotherhood soldiers. Núñez was smiling, and Bantios lingered next to him, eyeing Quinn with his usual nervous awe.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

“Supply run, ma’am!” Bantios squeaked, his gaze darting between her and the ground. “And for the experience. See if we can manage in the wasteland on our own!”

Initiate Núñez frowned at her. “Are you alright, ma’am? You look pale.”

“Yeah,” Quinn mumbled, feeling panic welling up inside her. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just...noodles disagree with me.” She glanced from one soldier to the next, doing everything she could to keep her breathing steady. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Almost, ma’am” Núñez replied. “We have a few more things to collect.”

“I see.” She nodded. “Well done on getting here unharmed. But time is precious and you need to locate those supplies and make it back as soon as possible.” Quinn leapt to her feet, grabbing Piper by her coat sleeve. “If you’ll excuse me, I really don’t think the food here has settled well for me. See you.”

Quinn half ran, half walked away as she dragged Piper along with her to a distant chorus of, _“Ad Victoriam, ma’am!”_ Initiate Núñez watched her leave carefully, a shrewd look on his face. But when Quinn stared him out, he dropped his gaze and moved on with the others.

“Piper,” Quinn hissed once they were out of sight and earshot, far down the alley outside of Nick’s agency. “Danse could be anywhere in the city! What if they _see_ him?”

“Blue, calm down. We’ll—"

“Piper, they will _kill_ him!” Quinn clutched at her friend’s arms, her breath coming out in wheezes. “We need to find him now!”

* * *

Nick Valentine looked up from his desk. “Are you trying to break down my door or open it?”

Danse said nothing, staring at the synth and wondering if he had made a mistake. He was just thinking about backing out and leaving, maybe going to get something to eat from the centre of town instead, when Nick spoke again.

“Pull up a seat, kid. Though I don’t know what she expects me to say to you. I’m a detective, not a psychiatrist.”

The fact the detective seemed to find this whole idea as ridiculous as he did settled Danse somewhat, and he grabbed the nearest chair, dragging it in front of the desk and dropping into it.

“So, what can I do for you?” Nick leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette. “Quinn told me you refused point blank to see me—that the whole thing was off. Yet here you are.”

“I don’t know,” muttered Danse, glaring at his feet. “This is a waste of time as far as I’m concerned. Machines shouldn’t even be—"

“Oh, zip it. I’m here to help you, not listen to you spout the same tired crap about synths.”

Danse glanced up at Nick, his stomach contracting with revulsion at the sight of the synth’s metallic face, and then sighed, bowing his head again.

There was a pause.

“Ah, I’m sorry kid.” Nick leaned forward in his seat, but Danse deliberately avoided looking up again. “Everything you could say to me, I’ve heard a thousand times over. At this point, backchat comes naturally to me.”

“Why do you call me ‘kid’?” Danse asked, staring fixedly at his knees. His nausea relaxed somewhat so long as he couldn’t see the detective. “I’m not a child.”

Nick laughed. “I’m over a century old. Everyone’s a kid to me...kid.”

Danse glanced up, frowning, and then immediately regretted it as he met the detective’s strange yellow eyes. He hurriedly looked away again. “I didn’t realise synths with your capacity for independence went so far back. I thought…”

“Well, you’re half right.” He heard Nick drag on his cigarette and wondered how the synth could manage it without proper lungs. “I seem to be one of the earliest models. The in-between for synths without thought, and synths like yourself.”

He stopped as Danse flinched.

“Danse,” he said after a few seconds. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Danse twisted his hands in his lap. “You’re…” He leaned forward onto the desk, putting his head into his hands. “I’ve been put in a room with a skeleton version of myself and told to play nice with it. Why can’t anyone see what that feels like?”

If the detective was offended by this declaration, he didn’t say it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the back creaking loudly, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “Do you smoke?”

“Sometimes.”

Nick slid a packet of cigarettes and a lighter across the desk with his whole hand. “If you need one at any point, help yourself. And I think I have some whiskey around—"

“No alcohol,” Danse said quickly.

“No alcohol?”

“No. I...don’t drink.”

A few more beats of silence.

“Alright then.” Nick considered him. Then his voice grew brighter as he said, “As I was saying, I’m over a hundred years old. But my mind is pre-war.”

Now _that_ caught Danse’s attention. His hand crept towards the packet of cigarettes as he said, “Pre-war? But...how?”

“Well,” said Nick, dragging on his smoke, “before the war, there was a detective called Nick Valentine…”

And it all came out. A life that Danse could never have imagined...and never thought to ask about. The tale of Jenny and Eddie Winter, the nasty conclusion of the whole sordid affair, and the capture of the original Nick’s memories...and where they had ended up, two hundred years later.

“Winter was always a scumbag,” Nick said, glaring out distantly. “Inherited his gang from ol’ Bossanova after she called it quits, and made for the top. But he did things differently. Bossanova kept her boys in check. Winter on the other hand...Winter was just a mad dog and his hounds had the taste for blood."

Nick stubbed his cigarette out on the desk. “Protection…” He pulled a disgusted face. “They offered him _protection.”_

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Danse said, hanging on Nick’s every word. The old detective looked weary. “I thought justice was done before the war. I thought the police kept everything under control.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, kid,” Nick said, lighting up another cigarette, “but people were just as stupid and flawed back then as they are now. And the law were no exception. I saw corruption and laziness every day, and not all of it from the criminals. All we good cops could do was keep it in check.” He sighed, staring around his makeshift office. “And in the end, what difference did it make? The world still ended.”

“I think it mattered,” said Danse, frowning. “Principles _matter._ If you hadn’t done your job, the lives of the civilians under your care would have suffered.”

Something flickered through Nick’s face.

“Maybe,” he said. He paused and then offered the cigarette packet to Danse.

Danse took one.

“Winter got what he deserved in the end,” Nick said as Danse lit up. “He survived the bombs, became a ghoul...and Quinn helped me track him down.”

“You got him?” Danse said, nearly dropping his cigarette in surprise. “Quinn never mentioned…”

“Would you have listened?” Nick replied.

Danse suddenly realised he had been looking at the detective for the last half an hour. The nausea returned, and he dropped his gaze back to his knees, dragging on his cigarette and then coughing.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Quinn said you like pre-war things,” Nick said after a while. “That you’re a walking history book.”

“Did she?” Danse coughed again. “She never seemed that interested when I tried to ask her about the old world.”

“Probably a painful topic for her.”

Danse had never thought of it that way, and a strong feeling of guilt hit him. When he had first met her, he had pestered her continually for information about the time before the bombs fell, and she had continually brushed him off. Why had it never occurred to him that Quinn might not want to talk about it?

“But she knows you like history,” Nick continued, “and thankfully, she’s not the only person who could tell you about pre-war life.”

Slowly, Danse dragged his eyes up to meet Nick’s yellow ones, and immediately felt his heart race. He took a few deep breaths through his nose and then said, “I’ve always wondered...what are the purpose of those chained bracelets that are in the police stations? Salvaged texts calls them handcuffs, but I’ve never fully understood their purpose.”

“In short, they were designed to keep a prisoner’s hands together to make them easier to control and to stop them hurting people. But that didn’t always work. Some of the nastier crooks used to try and strangle us with them when they got free.”

That did it. At once, Danse launched into a barrage of questions, while a slightly surprised—but also pleased—Nick answered each and every one of them. Danse learned about interview rooms and patrol cars, the proceedings in a court and the reason for giving witness statements.

“Was there anything that annoyed you about your job?” Danse asked, reeling from the information he was receiving, and yet desperate to know more.

“The coffee,” Nick said without hesitation, his expression turning dark. “The stereotype of cops eating donuts is long dead, but back then, it existed for a _reason.”_ He leaned back in his chair. “The coffee in the station was always goddamn awful, and it was convenient just to go into the donut shops to grab a coffee to go...and a few donuts along the way.”

Danse didn’t know what a donut was, but it sounded like something that should go in the coffee. Maybe like sugar? He was about to ask Nick that very question when the detective suddenly began ranting.

“And don’t even get me started on the mess people left in their patrol cars! I swear to God, grown men and they couldn’t even pick up their own trash at the end of shift. The amount of time I had to throw out old coffee cups and donut bags before I took out a car was unbelievable. And then there were always one or two guys who couldn’t help but hit on dames every day. Used to annoy the hell out of me, especially since some of those cops were married.”

He tidied up the papers on his desk. “And then there were the times that were just...plain nasty. Times where I wondered whether I wanted to stay at all.”

There was a pause, and then Nick sighed.

“This wasn’t a job I went to...not until the clean up afterwards. But there was a cop...older guy. Good guy. Him and his partner...they went to a call in a house—a guy beating on his little girl. They get there, and he has her at knifepoint. Says he’s gonna cut her throat if they don’t leave. And Joey freezes. Wants to shoot the guy, but doesn’t want to hit the girl. His partner, Frank, ain’t so hesitant. Tries to grab the girl, and gets stabbed in the throat for his troubles.”

Nick stared at his cigarette, watching the smoke slowly trail from its burning end.

“Joey said it all happened too fast. Frank went down...and the girl followed. Next thing Joey knows, the bastard is twitching on the floor full of holes, and Joey’s gun is in his hands. But he said he never remembered taking it out.”

Nick dragged on his cigarette, his hand shaking slightly. “I saw the scene afterwards. It was a goddamn mess.”

“But…” Danse wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he asked it anyway. “Did they survive?”

“No,” replied Nick. “Joey tried to save Frank and the girl, but they died pretty quick. As for the guy…if someone had slowed the bleeding until backup arrived, he might have lived. But as Joey told me and the other detectives afterwards…”

Nick’s face went hard.

“Joey forgot how to slow the bleeding. Which is too bad. He had to watch the scumbag die instead. Joey said he told the guy he could have asked his partner or the girl to help, if they weren’t dead.”

Nick stubbed his cigarette out and tossed it carelessly into the ashtray. “Really is too bad.”

Danse stared at Nick for some time, speechless.

The detective glanced up at him. “I know you’re thinking the guy should have been saved, or we should have arrested Joey for letting him die. I wondered that myself a few times, especially when Joey took early retirement. But I always came to the same conclusion, and I still come to it now. Some people don’t deserve a second chance. And I don’t regret letting Joey walk.”

Nick lit another smoke and jammed it in his mouth, his arms folded against his chest as he puffed away, scowling.

“What was her name?” Danse asked.

“What?”

“Her name,” Danse said again. “What was the girl’s name?”

Nick looked at him and then gave a heavy sigh. “Poppy. Her name was Poppy.”

He played with the lighter in his metallic hand, watching the sparks.

“You did the right thing,” Danse said quietly.

Nick’s cigarette fell straight out of his mouth.

The two synths looked at each other for a moment, and a small smile appeared on Nick’s face. He reached out and picked up his cigarette, relighting and dragging on it again.

Danse watched him, and then said, “There must have been something you liked? Otherwise why stay?”

Nick’s face softened. “Yeah. There were bad days, but...sometimes you’d just get a job that made it worth all the crap.”

Danse waited.

Nick tapped his cigarette into an ashtray and then smiled. “I saw a lot of terrible things. Or the real Nick did. A lot of folk treatin’ each other bad. But...hell, I dunno. Sometimes the bad brought out the best in people, too.”

“Like what?”

“Well...back when I was new to the job, I went to my first death. Old guy. But his gal wasn't quite right in the head, and she ran to the neighbours for help. Dangerous at that time of night, in such a rough part of town. By the time we got there…” Nick tapped his fingers on the desk. “Those people looked after her like she was their own mother. Helped her contact her daughter, and kept her together while we filled out the paperwork. Sad business, but it showed me hard times bring out the good in people. I've never forgotten it.”

“Was that your best case?”

Nick shook his head, and his smile broadened. “The best job I ever did wasn’t a big thing or even a crime. A little boy went missing from just outside his home. Parents were near crazy with worry, the rest of the street losing their minds trying to find him, and us...chasing our tails, certain we have a kidnapping on our hands.”

Danse’s stomach went tight. Hadn’t he just said it wasn’t a crime?

But Nick carried on smiling. “After ten hours of frantic searching, terrified it was gonna be another Poppy...we found him. I found him.”

“Where was he?” Danse asked.

“Nearby patch of woodland. Kid had wandered off where he wasn’t supposed to and gotten lost. He was asleep in an old shack surrounded by toys and a suitcase full of colouring books. When I showed him my badge he asked if I was going to arrest him for leaving his street and started to cry.”

Nick laughed, and after a couple of seconds, Danse joined in. He tried to drag from his cigarette and realised it had gone out. Nick leaned forward, lighter in hand.

“Thanks,” said Danse, and Nick lit it for him.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, enjoying their cigarettes. Then Nick tapped his against the ashtray and said, “This job, though...before and after the war. The things the old Nick dealt with, and the things I’ve dealt with since...they stay with you for the rest of your life. You can either let it consume you, or let it shape you into a better man. I don’t know if the real Nick Valentine ever found peace before he died. But I like to think that whatever happened to him, I did right by him.” Nick paused. “And Jenny.”

Danse studied him and then smiled. “I think you did.”

Nick blinked in surprise, but before he could reply, his front door burst open.

“Doesn’t anyone know how to open a door norma—"

_“Danse!”_

Quinn’s shriek cut across Nick’s grumbling, and she launched herself across the room, throwing herself into Danse’s arms so hard she nearly knocked him out of his chair.

“What the hell is going on?” he heard Nick say while Danse tried to calm Quinn down.

“Brotherhood,” said Piper, closing the door carefully behind her. “They’re in town, Nick. And if they see _him…”_ She nodded towards Danse.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Quinn babbled, clinging to Danse like she would never let go.

“I’ve been here for a while,” Danse said softly, prying her away from him and touching her cheek. The way she got so worked up over his safety always shocked him. “I...changed my mind over talking to…” He stopped as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Shall we leave you two alone for a bit?” Nick asked, standing up and dusting down his coat.

“No, Nick,” Quinn said quickly, looking scared again. “They might hurt you too—"

“I’ve had a few years to get around the Brotherhood’s tricks,” Nick replied calmly, lighting up another cigarette. “But if those schmucks know I’m here, then this is the first place they’ll look. You might be better off relocating to Piper’s.”

Danse felt a spike of anger at the way they were talking about his friends—his comrades—but before he could defend them, Quinn spoke.

“I don’t want to risk taking him through the city.”

Nick bent down and pulled out a small box from his desk, tossing it to Danse. Danse caught it and turned it over in his hands. It was a stealth boy.

“Either use that to leave, or use it to get to Piper’s. Your choice.” Nick sat back down behind his desk and shrugged. “I’m gonna stay here and weather the storm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> Thanks to all the lovely reviews and supportive messages I got during my break. It was very much appreciated, thank you. And for those of you that missed it, I did a little update for 'Spuds.' ;)
> 
> And one final thank you to my friend, hokuto-ju-no-ken, for putting me in touch with a retired American police officer.
> 
> All the police stories included in this chapter are all based off real stories that I collected from this officer. For the story with the little girl and the officer who were stabbed to death, their real names were Butch and Daisy. The officer who gave me these stories was happy for their deaths and names to be shared. He said he was glad they weren’t being forgotten.


	47. Lockpicks and Liquor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday! Have a chapter a day early. :)

Danse watched as Quinn flitted back and forth across the inner wall of Piper’s house, pressing her face against the gaps so she could see out into the street. He knew she was looking for the Brotherhood patrols, her face pale and her eyes wide with worry.

She turned away from the cracks, holding herself tight, and Danse the force of her upset hit him like a sledgehammer. He was on his feet and walking towards her, taking her in arms before he knew what was happening. Quinn buried her head in his chest, and after a few seconds he realised she was crying.

Feeling thoroughly educated on how to deal with this sort of situation now, Danse held her tight and waited for the tears to subside. And when they did, he drew her back ever so slightly and gave her a gentle kiss.

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” she mumbled, pulling away from him a little. Danse clung on, and she looked at him, surprised.

“I understand why you did it,” he said, but then it was his own turn to be surprised when she shook her head.

“No, you don’t.” Quinn pulled away again, and this time he let her go. She walked across the room, holding herself tight again. Danse waited, sensing he shouldn’t interrupt. After a while, she spoke, still looking away from him.

“When Nate came home from the military, he was...different. He went through a lot of trauma, some of which I never learned about. He hid so much from me. I tried to help him as best I could on my own, but over time he got more and more distant from me _and_ Shaun, until one night he just...lost it.”

Quinn had spoken about Nate before, but nothing like this. Never in-depth with any of the problems they’d had. Only the good things. Danse wasn’t sure what to feel. On the one hand, he was comforted that Nate had been just as flawed as him. The man had seemed too good for Danse to compete with. But the result of that meant Quinn’s misery, and Danse knew his relief was a selfish one.

“But I let Nate get to that point. I let him have his way and fight on his own,” Quinn went on, oblivious to Danse’s internal struggle. “Only when I threatened to leave him did he try to get better. It should never have gotten that far. I know you’re having a hard time too, and I know there’s only so much I can help with. I wanted to sort things out now before it went the same way as it did with Nate. But I was so wrapped up in fixing everything myself, I didn’t stop to think if I should include you in the decision.”

Danse walked across the room and placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face him. When she continued to stare at the floor, he tucked his fingers under her chin and tilted her head up so their eyes finally met.

“You did the right thing,” he said firmly, holding her gaze.

Quinn stared back at him for a few seconds and then gave a small, reluctant nod.

He touched her cheek, caressing her with his thumb. “I mean it. It’s not the way I would have preferred it to happen, and next time I’d like a warning first, but it did a lot of good. I’m…” Danse paused. Expressing himself was not his forte, but she needed to understand that she had _helped._ “I feel lighter.”

The words sounded utterly stupid to him, but Quinn brightened up at this.

“You do?” she asked, biting her lip, looking hopeful.

Danse pounced on the idea. “Yes. I’m not saying I’m what I was from...before. But I do feel different, in a good sort of way. Like something’s been lifted from me.”

And it was the god honest truth.

Quinn beamed and flung her arms around his neck, almost pulling him over as she squeezed him tight, before kissing him. Danse responded with little persuasion, and in that moment he was glad Piper had decided to keep watch for the Brotherhood outside of her house.

Somehow, they ended up on the sofa again, wrapped in each other’s embrace, and it was only when a closing door woke him up, did Danse realise they had fallen asleep together. He squinted over at the door to see Piper grinning guiltily at him.

“You two are adorable, you know that?” She crept quietly through the room, now smiling at Quinn, who was still out for the count, sprawled across Danse. “She was so worried today. Thought she had upset you real bad. And then when the Brotherhood showed up…”

“She’s getting bothered over nothing,” Danse said in a low voice, feeling uncomfortable at the mention of his reaction to Quinn’s announcement of the meeting. “I’m not concerned about them.”

Piper frowned. “You should be.”

There was a long silence as Piper stared at him, while Danse turned his gaze to the floor. She sighed. “Try to get back to sleep, if you can. I imagine Quinn will want to leave as soon as possible tomorrow morning.”

When Danse didn’t respond, Piper went upstairs to bed.

Uncertainty prickled through him as he lay there, playing with Quinn’s hair. Everyone he spoke wanted to convince him to think the worst of the Brotherhood. And there was a part of him that suspected they might be right. But it was like a barrier existed between his loyalty and his logic—he couldn’t connect the two, and his dedication was the stronger side.

Danse pushed his doubts aside and shook his head. He had no proof, nothing solid to grasp at, and yet Danse did not feel threatened by his brothers and sisters. He couldn’t say _why,_ but his loyalty had never failed him yet.

He looked down at Quinn, still splayed out on top of him. If she was with him, everything would be fine. And she’d come round to his way of thinking eventually.

_When has Quinn ever done that without an argument or a drawn out talk?_ a sensible voice in his head said.

Danse frowned. Well, then they’d just have to argue about it. Because he wasn’t backing down from this.

* * *

“I don’t think we're being followed,” Quinn whispered, glancing over her shoulder as they trudged through the silent streets of Boston. Danse turned his head towards her, and she wished he wasn't wearing his helmet so she could see his expression.

“Why would anyone be following us?” Danse asked.

“The Brotherhood—”

“The Brotherhood have no reason to follow us.”

“But if they’ve seen you…”

“And if they have?”

Quinn stared at him incredulously. Had he simply forgotten all the shit that had happened in the last two months?

_Crack._

Her thoughts were cut short as a bullet grazed her arm. She yelled out in pain and whirled on the spot, causing her to lose her footing and tumble down a set of stone steps. The taste of metal filled her mouth as she bit her tongue, and she lay there, dazed, her fingers scrabbling for her gun.

Danse ran down to her, seizing her by the collar of her clothes and dragging her over to a nearby door, before standing in front of her and firing at the three mutants that had attacked. They went down quickly. Danse turned and crouched, and she could hear the worry in his voice as he said, “Did they hit you? Are you alright?”

“Just caught me,” Quinn replied, holding up her arm, where the slight wound could be seen through the hole in her jumpsuit. “I’ll be fine.”

Danse started to respond, but stopped when more howls in the distance echoed through the street. He stood up and darted forward, picking up her rifle while Quinn staggered to her feet and wrenched the door open. She knew he would be thinking the same course of action. Anything was better than being exposed like this.

Darkness engulfed them as the metal door slammed behind them with a loud clang. Danse leaned against it, and they waited, the angry yells outside muffled by the heavy barrier. But for whatever reason, the mutants did not follow.

“Odd…” Danse muttered, raising his weapon and edging down the gloomy corridor. “They might not know we went in here, but it’s unusual for them not to check. There may be something worse in this building. I’m going to scout ahead and make sure there’s no immediate threat, and then I’m going to look at your arm. Be on your guard, and call me back if there’s any trouble.”

Quinn nodded and watched as he disappeared into the deep black, the only light cast by a flickering fire from somewhere down the end of the corridor. It didn’t take him long to return, and when he did, he was shaking his head. He positioned his armour against the door, stepped out of it, and then set about cleaning Quinn’s wound. The look on his face told her plainly that now was not the moment to ask questions.

Only when her arm was dressed and Danse had returned to his armour, did he speak.

“I think I know what happened here,” he said in a low voice as he led the way past a shopping cart. It was filled to the brim with meat that oozed maggots. He pointed to a dead mutant on the floor. “Mutants don’t fear us. They see us as prey or potential candidates to be infected with their filth. Even when we fight back, the temptation to take us is too great. But other mutants…”

Danse sighed. “We’ve stumbled into a territorial war.”

Quinn blinked. “Super mutants are territorial?”

“Not all of them. But it happens. A group with more than one mutant intelligent enough to be an overlord will splinter, and over time the two new factions fight it out for the best food and the best hives. Unless I’m mistaken, the mutants outside are the remnants of the ones who used to live here. And now somewhere inside this building…”

His voice trailed away, but he didn’t need to finish the sentence. Hidden in the shadows were the winners.

“We’re treading on very dangerous ground.” Danse stepped over the mutant and peered around the corner. “They attack even harder when they’re in-fighting. At the moment, I can’t see an option but to continue. They don’t seem to know we’re here right now, which gives us the element of surprise. We could clean them out before they realise what’s going on.”

Quinn fidgeted with her rifle. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I, but there’s little else we can do. If we go outside, we’ll be overwhelmed. If we stay put, they might surprise _us_ instead.”

She knew he was right, but that didn’t make her feel any better about the plan. Or maybe it was just the atmosphere that surrounded her, the distinctive stench of decay heavy in the air. Quinn’s stomach turned, and she leaned against Danse for a moment, trying not to breathe through her nose.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Quinn mumbled, straightening up again. She still wasn’t used to the smell of the dead, and if she had it her way, she never would be. The price of accustoming seemed far too great.

Although Quinn couldn’t see his face, Danse wasn’t faring well either. He was doing better than their last time in a mutant hive, and yet he held the demeanour of a man clinging on by the tips of his fingers. He twitched at every shadow, every noise, his rifle never dipping, even for a second. This was far past his usual caution of battle, and Quinn got the impression he was waiting for a disaster to happen. Or maybe he was afraid of seeing the ghosts again.

They walked past cages with people in them, long starved or butchered, some of them skeletons with only the meanest scraps of flesh left on their bloody bones. Meat bags hung in their usual macabre way, slowly dripping into ever-increasing puddles below. Danse kept his head down, looking straight ahead while Quinn’s eyes roamed.

As they made it upstairs, they passed a big white sign with bright red letters that held the brand _‘Wilson Atomatoys.’_

Quinn paused. She had heard of that before. Nate had suggested ordering one of their pony toys for Shaun for when he was a bit older. A ‘buttercup’ something or other.

All thoughts of toy horses were driven from Quinn’s mind, however, when they made it up to the ground level. The main entrance had long since collapsed, dashing their hopes of an escape route.

“Shit,” Quinn hissed, now feeling thoroughly nervous.

Danse held up his hand to silence her, and she followed his lead as they crept up another set of stairs, toward a group of talking mutants. Quinn had never heard them converse before, only scream and shout while they tried to kill her.

“Place is ours,” one grunted.

“Hurt them bad,” said another.

“Not over yet,” replied the biggest—a huge, hulking figure wearing a helmet that looked like it had been made from a set of traffic lights. “Could come back. We hunt. We kill. We _win.”_

The others rumbled in agreement, and Danse carefully pulled a grenade out from a compartment on his armour. He nodded to Quinn, and when she nodded back, he pulled the pin and rolled it gently across the floor.

The mutants only had time to look down before it went off, sending the limbs of the closest one scattering in various directions.

A low scream filled the air and the biggest mutant suddenly rushed them. Its speed took both Quinn and Danse by surprise, and a second later, Danse was crashing down the stairs, wrestling with the oversized monster as it pummelled every inch of him. But as Quinn raised her gun to help, something grabbed her by the hair and flung her down the walkway. She crashed into the nearby wall, bouncing off it onto the floor, the wind knocked out of her.

Quinn lay there for a moment, mouth breathlessly moving as her body begged for air, and then glanced up to see a mutant advancing, a large board riddled with nails clutched in its hands. With a roar, it smashed it down, and Quinn twisted aside, a wayward nail puncturing her arm.

Her throat still denying her air, she could only open her lips in silent pain. Somehow, the combat knife from her boot—a trick given to her by Danse—appeared in her hand before the mutant could raise its weapon again, and she drove it deep into its foot. It howled, and staggered back, stumbling heavily into the old, rusted rails. There was a loud crack, and the metal gave way, the mutant toppling down headfirst.

Quinn heard a sickening thud, but had no time to wonder whether the thing was still alive. Another mutant from the next room had made an appearance, and she could see others behind it. She was unarmed again, and Danse was nowhere to be seen.

_Fuck it._

Her breath returned in a strangled yell as she rolled across the floor and through the broken railings, catching hold of the edge at the last second so that she dangled over the side. The mutant that had landed below her was twitching, its head and neck at an odd angle to the rest of its body. Other than that, the drop looked safe. Lucky, too, as only a few metres to her right was an arrangement of rusted spikes—a mutant’s idea of classy decor.

Just as she was about to let go, there were a series of loud, metallic footsteps, and her heart soared as she heard Danse bellow, _“Ad victoriam!”_

Laser fire filled the air and ash cascaded over the edge, coating her in a fine layer of dust.

A strangled roar, a grunt of pain, and a mutant flew off the platform above. It gave one surprised scream as it tumbled towards the metal teeth, and Quinn closed her eyes. But she couldn’t drown out the horrible wet thud, nor the shrieks of agony that followed. When she opened them again, she saw it had been impaled like meat on a spit roast.

“Quinn?” Danse called out over the screams.

“Down here!” she yelled back, and he peered over before grabbing her and hauling her up. In an instant she had pulled his helmet off and dragged him down into a hug, pressing her cheek against his as she clutched at his hair. He held her back, much more carefully than Quinn, and she sensed his reluctance when she eventually pulled away.

“Are you alright?” they both asked at the same time.

There was a pause and then they grinned at each other.

“Fuck, that was scary,” Quinn whispered, stepping away from him and glancing over to the stairs. The large mutant lay crumpled there, its head missing, the top of its neck coated in thick, grey ash.

When she directed her gaze back at Danse, she saw he had moved to the edge of the walkway, and was watching the mutant scream and writhe below, an odd look on his face. Quinn didn’t like it.

Without comment, he turned to walk away.

Quinn glanced at him, then back down to the mutant. She raised her rifle.

“Leave it,” said Danse, as he stooped down and picked up his helmet, putting it back on with a clunk.

“What?”

“Don’t waste your bullets. Leave it.”

“But…” Its howls of agony were making her shiver. “Danse...it’s in pain.”

“So?”

“So?” Quinn gaped at him. “So you want it to suffer?”

A long pause.

“Yes,” he said quietly, and then strode away.

Quinn felt unnerved. No matter who or what they fought, Danse had always put a dying enemy out of their misery, especially if their pain was great. She knew the reason why he was doing this, of course, but that didn’t make it right.

“So that’s what we do now, huh?” Quinn snapped, though she could barely hear herself think over the screams below. “We act like _them?”_

Danse stopped in his tracks, and immediately she knew she’d gone too far. But instead of exploding, he stormed back down the walkway, leaned over the barrier, and fired his rifle. The room fell silent. When he turned to look at her again, she was glad she couldn’t see his face behind his helmet.

“I will _never_ be like them,” Danse snarled.

Quinn brushed past him, stepping over the bodies, her heart pounding. She didn’t want to upset him. Not after the last argument. This was supposed to be the honeymoon period, when things were their calmest. But if that was the kind of path he was going to take, then she wouldn’t follow him down it. He needed to know that.

Together they picked through the rest of the building, finding the odd piece of useful scrap here and there, an icy distance between them. Only when they reached a locked door, Quinn forgot her unease as intrigue took over. Amongst her other unsavoury talents, lockpicking was a particular favourite. It was like a duel with the crafter of the lock, each taking a step to foil and block the other.

Or maybe she was just being dramatic. Either way, her ex Mark had been impressed with her knack for getting into places she wasn’t supposed to. Probably because those places usually ended up being the confiscated liquor cabinet at school.

Grinning to herself, Quinn pulled out her screwdriver and a bobby pin she kept tucked in her pocket. The end was filed and bent into a slight hook shape. Not as good as a proper lockpick, but sufficient.

She crouched down, ignoring Danse as he loomed behind her, and set to work, sliding the bobby pin inside the keyhole and carefully testing each pin, stroking them and waiting for that first faint, satisfying _click._

To her surprise, it came quickly, and Quinn trailed the pin up and down, searching for the next weak point. Then the next. And the next. She worked slowly, and was glad that Danse was a lot more patient than Mark had ever been. Quinn could sense his interest as she deftly navigated her way through the lock, until at last, all the pins were in place. Then with great care, she twisted the screwdriver, and the lock turned.

“Well,” said Danse after a few beats of silence, “they don’t teach that in boot camp.”

Quinn laughed and the tension between them disappeared. As she stood up, Danse took off his helmet and caught her arm.

“Quinn,” he said, looking sheepish. “I’m—”

Quinn pulled on the handles of his armour, tugging him down so she could press a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t say it.”

“But—”

“You don’t need to say it,” Quinn repeated firmly. The paleness of his face told her everything. He had enough on his mind without her disapproval adding to his worries. “Come on. Let’s see what’s in this room.”

Danse gave her a half-grateful, half-exasperated look, but smiled before following her through.

Both of them stopped dead over the threshold.

The office was immaculate. Quinn glanced over at Danse and saw his eyes widen with wonder. She had no idea how this small room had managed to remain so preserved, but she didn’t care. The delight written across Danse’s face was the only thing she needed to see.

“Amazing,” he whispered, edging close to a bookshelf filled with pristine toys. “This room appears to be totally untouched by the ravages of war. We might be the first people in here for over two-hundred years.”

His hand reached out to touch one of the toys, but then he hesitated and reluctantly withdrew it, letting it drop back to his side. He turned to her, a wide grin on his face. “The things we could learn just from this room alone. Our scribes would have a field day here. Can you access the computers at all?”

Quinn winced. There was that ‘our’ again. Trying to ignore it, she smiled and sat down at the desk, clicking through the terminal. Then she frowned at the name on the screen. “Hang on…this is...”

She glanced over to a door on the other side of the room and stood up, hurrying over to it. This terminal was locked, but it didn’t take long to break through, and when the door slid open, her suspicions were confirmed. The shelves were filled with toy parts and design sketches.

“Arlen Glass,” Quinn mumbled, staring at the dusty shelves.

“Who?” Danse said, peering over her shoulder into the little room.

“Arlen Glass,” Quinn repeated. “The man from the Slog.”

“The toymaker ghoul?”

“The very same.” She pointed to the computer behind her. “That’s his terminal. This must have been his workspace, pre-war.”

There was a terminal in this room as well. Quinn bent over it, working her way inside quickly, and saw to her great delight that there was another holotape nestled within the machine. She flicked down through the terminal options, throwing Danse an excited look, and he smiled gently at her.

“Another one for my collection.” Quinn hit the play command.

_“Go ahead,”_ said a soft voice. A woman’s voice. There was a pause, and then a little girl began to chatter away.

_“Hi, Daddy! When are you coming home? You work too much. I want you to read to me again. Mommy says you're helping all the horsies find good homes. Take care of them, okay? I love you.”_

Another pause.

_“Hmm? Oh, Buttercup says she loves you too. We miss you. Come home soon!”_

The tape went dead and Quinn ejected it, feeling cold. She turned to Danse, who looked equally disturbed.

“Did...did Arlen Glass ever mention a family?”

Danse shifted on the spot. “He said he had a daughter, but he never explicitly stated what happened to her.”

Quinn stared down at the tape in her hand.

“While this room likely has a lot of salvage we can take back to the Brotherhood,” Danse said with the tone of someone quickly trying to change the subject, “I’ll understand if you want to leave it untouched.”

She couldn’t let this go on any longer. Whatever was happening, he was clearly in denial. He wasn’t moving on.

“Danse,” Quinn said tentatively, feeling nervous. “You’re...you’re talking like you’re still in the Brotherhood, y’know? I’m sure it’s just me taking it the wrong way, but…”

She trailed off as he stared at her, and suddenly felt very small.

“I’m out here representing them,” Danse said after some time, though his voice sounded odd. “The way it should be.”

“Danse…”

“There’s Brotherhood, and then there’s everything else. Nothing in-between.” He shifted on the spot, and Quinn sensed he was scowling. “And regardless of my status with them, I intend to help. I can’t go back to the Prydwen yet, but I can still help further their mission in my own way. I _am_ Brotherhood, in body and soul.”

“But—”

“We should see if there’s anything worth salvaging in the rest of the building,” Danse interrupted. “Come on.”

He stomped away before she could stop him, leaving her to follow, riddled with confusion and worry.

* * *

By the time they made it back out into the city again, the other mutants had moved on, and their progress into the open wasteland was quick and unhindered.

Danse felt elated as he strode across the landscape, the conversation in the toy manufacturers forcefully pushed to the back of his mind.

The silent worries of the previous night were forgotten. He had Quinn by his side, the rifle she had given him in his hand once again, and his armour had been returned to him. It was like he had never left the Brotherhood at all. He grinned behind his helmet, glad Quinn couldn’t see. This was something private, something wonderful...something she might not approve of.

Since his confrontation with Maxson, he had slowly been coming to terms with his place in the Brotherhood. At first he had thought it was the end, that he would never be a part of them again. But then over time he began to realise an obvious truth: they may not accept him at the moment, but he was still _part_ of the Brotherhood. He still represented them, even if they didn’t know it. He was still Brotherhood, through and through. Maxson hadn’t executed him. Why would they?

A small part of his brain pressed on the issue that Quinn’s intervention was the only reason he was still alive, but the rest of him dismissed it. The very notion made him feel uncomfortable, uneasy...unwelcome. He had given everything and more for the Brotherhood. Killed for them. Nearly died for them. Lost his best friend for their cause.

They wouldn’t have just dropped him so easily. The idea was too much to bear.

Danse felt his smile falter as the uncertainty returned, but then he shook his head. That was just Quinn and her doubting getting to him again. It would be fine. He would be fine. A temporary setback. That was it. That was it…

As they drew over a hill, he spied the Prydwen in the distance and stopped, smiling to himself again. “Doesn’t it feel good to be a part of something as great as the Brotherhood?”

“You aren’t part of the Brotherhood, Danse.”

It felt as if he’d been thrown into ice-cold water. Had he said that out loud? He hadn’t meant to. And yet Quinn had obviously heard it.

Swallowing, his throat tight but determined to gloss over his error, he quickly said, “I know that. I was referring to you.”

“No, you weren’t,” Quinn replied, her voice hard. She turned to him and glared, and Danse felt the familiar prickles of doubt in his chest. Her glare deepened as she said, “You were referring to both of us.”

“I think I would know what I was talking about,” Danse snapped, feeling his face going hot. It was an odd sensation. She had caught him out, and yet part of him still felt like she was mistaken. Wasn’t it obvious what he meant?

...What _had_ he meant?

“Well if you know that,” Quinn retorted, “then you’ll know that you’re still acting like you’re part of their little club. Still talking like you’re going to step straight back on that ship with scrap and tech and they’ll just accept you as if nothing ever happened.”

Danse bristled at this. How ridiculous that was. And yet a small part of him had hoped...no. She was wrong. She was _wrong._ How Quinn was wrong, he couldn’t explain, but it was better than her being right. Trying to keep himself calm, he said, “Are you calling me delusional?”

“Damn right I am. After everything they put you through, and you’re still clinging blindly to them, like a kicked dog trying to please a shitty master. Maxson _won’t_ take you back. He’s a bigot and a—”

_“Don’t insult him in front of me.”_ The danger was so clear in his voice, even he could hear it. Quinn hesitated, looking worried, but then an ugly look crossed her face and Danse knew she was about to give him hell.

“Watch me,” she hissed. “Maxson. Is. A. _Prick.”_

“He is your _Elder!”_ Danse snapped, his volume rising, his anger making him lose his grip on his sense of reason.

“He’s a fucking prick!” Quinn shot back, dropping all pretence of calm. “He didn’t fight for you, didn’t protect you! Didn’t even give you a _chance!”_

_“Enough!”_

“No, like hell that’s enough!” she yelled, starting to go red in the face. “I am trying my best to help you, Danse, putting my neck out for you in every possible way, and you don’t even seem _concerned_ by the danger! They want to _kill_ you. And when they’re through with you, they’ll turn on me, and then on your precious fucking Maxson that you seem so fond of. Or am I just a consolation prize because he won’t talk to you anymore?”

Danse didn’t know what a consolation prize was, but he could guess what she was getting at. A mixture of disgust and rage surged through him, and he strode towards her, certain an argument of the century was about to happen.

How dare she suggest he cared about Maxson more than her?

He was about to tell her this—possibly in a louder voice than necessary considering that they were only feet apart—when a nasty rumbling sounded in the distance.

Both Quinn and Danse whirled around to see the surface of a body of water bulge upwards and explode as a mirelurk the size of a house erupted from the depths. A queen. Before they could react, she scuttled towards them at startling speed, surrounded by a horde of normal sized mirelurks.

“Oh _shit!”_ Danse heard Quinn say, and then thick, green mucus hit him in the face. The visor on his helmet was immediately obscured, the goo clinging stubbornly to him, and he could smell burning. Quinn’s screams sounded somewhere to his left, and panic filled him at once. He wrenched the helmet off and threw it aside, to see Quinn pinned down by a mirelurk that had moved ahead of the group, while the queen advanced.

Danse wasn’t too sure what happened after that. He vaguely remembered running at the smaller mirelurk and barging it aside so that it rolled onto its back and slid down the hill, and then firing up at the queen. The next thing he knew, instead of the queen spitting her foul muck at them, the corrosive substance exploded down onto herself, the spouts on her face disintegrating.

“Shoot the head, shoot the head!” Danse bellowed, unsure if Quinn could even hear him. She must have done, though, because her bullets joined his laser fire. The queen gave a deep, earth-shaking shriek and staggered back, knocking the normal sized mirelurks out of the way.

“Keep going!”

The onslaught continued, blood and gunk cascading down like rotten rain, while the queen blindly tried to attack. Other mirelurks lunged for them, and Danse did his best to keep out of the way of their deadly claws, circling the queen while she tried to follow him, so that she became tangled on her own subjects.

Finally, the queen’s body jerked, and she fell backwards, landing on the spawn that surrounded her, crushing them and sending innards splattering everywhere.

But there was no time to think. There were some of the creatures still left, the hatchlings swarming towards them while the remaining adults attempted to avenge their dead queen.

When the dust settled and the sea monsters lay still, Danse let out a slow sigh, feeling as though he had just run the initiates’ endurance training at the Citadel.

“Quinn?” he called out, all anger at her forgotten. So long as she was unharmed, that was all that mattered.

“Fine,” she replied staggering around the queen’s body, looking exhausted. “You?”

“Affirmative,” he said, slipping back into his old habits. Then he remembered. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

Danse ignored her, searching for his precious possession. He didn’t have to look far. Half wedged into the dirt, his helmet was slightly corroded, and the metal was bent out of shape where the queen must have stood on it. The mucus had burned away, leaving only the damage behind. Danse cradled it in his arms like a child, and glanced across the landscape, to where the bunker was lying somewhere in the distance. Then he looked back down, panic welling up inside him.

His helmet. His last Brotherhood helmet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, waiting4morning, as always, and thanks for all the reviews and messages! Love them. <3


	48. In Flanders Fields

“Danse, wait!”

Quinn ran after Danse as he sprinted inside the bunker, far ahead of her. By the time she had followed him in, the doors of the elevator were already closing, and she only just managed to slip through them as they shut with a clunk.

“Danse,” she tried again, but he didn’t look up, instead turning his helmet over frantically in his hands, inspecting every inch of it.

There was a ping and Danse half walked, half ran out into the open space of the bunker, setting the helmet on the table and clambering out of his armour so quickly, he nearly fell over. Then he scooped his helmet up again and jogged over to his workstation, trying to salvage what he could.

Quinn knew it was a lost cause from the moment she’d set eyes on it, and she suspected Danse did too. She was only glad that the strange substance the mirelurk queen had spat at them had not lingered, else handling the helmet would have been impossible. But Danse needed to do this. He needed to make the attempt with his own two hands...and he needed to fail.

She watched from the corner, her heart breaking as he worked feverishly to save one of the few remaining pieces of his old life. He toiled for hours, never stopping, never speaking, ignoring Quinn when she tried to get him to rest or to eat.

Eventually, though, Danse set down his screwdriver and leaned over the workbench, breathing heavily through his nose as he shook his head.

“Danse?” Quinn asked tentatively, afraid of what his reaction would be.

It was worse. He glanced up at her, forcing a horrible, agonised smile, and gave a little shrug. “No matter. I’ll just order another from Teagan.”

“You know you can’t do that,” Quinn replied, and at once she resigned herself to the fight that was about to happen. She couldn’t allow this to carry on. He had to understand this. He had to let go.

Danse frowned, looking irritated. “Fine. Then you can order one for me.”

“I can, but that doesn’t solve the problem.” Quinn stepped carefully towards him. “You’re not part of the Brotherhood anymore, and you never will be again. You need to accept that.”

“I can still do good in their name.”

Ah. There was the desperation. The pretence was gone, and he looked at her, pleading in his eyes. Begging her not to continue. Quinn ignored it.

“No, you can’t,” she insisted. “You’re an exile. If they learn you’re still alive, they will hunt you down and—"

“Stop it, Quinn,” Danse said suddenly, straightening up and taking a step back from her.

_“—murder you,”_ Quinn said, raising the volume of her voice as she closed the gap between them. “If they see you, they will shoot you on sight—"

_“Stop it.”_

“They think you’re an abomination, not _worthy_ of the right to life.”

“I said stop it!” Danse snapped, his voice breaking as he leaned away from her.

“They’re wrong,” Quinn went on, “but that’s what they think!”

“Quinn, please don’t—"

“You are _not Brotherhood!”_

Danse picked up his ruined helmet and threw it across the room. It hit the power armour station with an echoing clang and bounced off towards the elevator. Quinn jumped, backing away from him, but it was his turn to pursue her into a corner.

_“I know!”_ he bellowed, and his voice cracked with distress as he gestured wildly. “I know! Is that what you want to hear? I know!”

“Danse—" Quinn began, immediately regretting her words, but he drowned her out.

“I know they don’t want me! I know they see me as a _freak._ After everything I gave to them, all the nightmares and guilt and the _grief,_ and they’d still kill me without an ounce of regret!”

There was a pause, and then he turned from her and strode over to a nearby console, his face red, shoulders heaving with emotion.

“Danse, please, I’m sorr—"

“Because I’m not _fucking_ real!”

He slammed his fist down hard on the glass screen of the console. There was a crack as it shattered, and Danse hissed with pain, red pouring from the wounds in his hand.

Quinn didn’t move, pressing herself back into the wall behind her. She wasn’t sure what frightened her more: that he’d reacted so violently, or that he’d swore. Danse _never_ swore. Her fingers dug into the stone as she watched him, her breath catching in her throat as he stared at his bleeding hand, breathing heavily through his nose, his cheeks patched with red. Then all of a sudden, the rage went, like someone had turned it off with a switch. His face relaxed, and he began calmly picking pieces of glass from his skin.

“None of this matters,” he said, flicking each shard away carelessly. After a few silent moments, Danse let his hand drop to his side though Quinn could still see embedded glass. Scarlet dripped steadily to the floor, but he ignored it, and instead walked over towards a nearby table.

Regaining her composure, Quinn inched forward. “Let me help.”

“No.” As he strode past the table, he snatched up a bottle of vodka they had collected to sanitise wounds, stoppered by a dirty cork. Without pause, Danse wrenched the cork out with his teeth, spitting it to the floor. “You’ve helped enough.”

“Danse, that’s for our medical kit, not for dri—"

He ignored her, taking a deep swig of the vodka, and coughed as he stalked away, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He stopped at the elevator and turned to her, slamming his bleeding fist into the buttons and then groaned with pain, before taking a second messy gulp of alcohol.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he said dully. “You wanted me to accept what I am. Well I’m a synth. And everyone I ever cared about wants me dead.” Another mouthful. “Congratulations. You _win.”_

Danse stepped inside the elevator and a moment later, he was gone.

* * *

Had he really sworn at her?

Danse sat on the floor of the bunker, his feet illuminated by the moonlight shafting through the open door. His hand hurt. His pride hurt even more. And now here he was, drunk and alone, nursing his wounds with alcohol. Just like when Cutler had died.

He hadn’t changed one bit.

Danse stared down at the vodka in his hand with disgust, and then sighed, drinking from it anyway. It had been a matter of time, really. He’d seen it far too often with others, but had always thought—always _hoped_ —he would be stronger than them. But better men and women had fallen prey to drink. Why would he be any different?

Teagan came to mind, with the day he had fallen down the stairs. Danse had been the one to find him, and helped him get to Cade’s office without drawing too much attention to the fact he was drunk rather than ill. Teagan had never really managed to look him in the eye afterwards, though.

The Proctor had always managed to keep his addiction a secret, and yet Danse hadn’t been surprised when he had learned the truth. It was just what happened, wasn’t it? The inevitable.

Danse raised the bottle in his hand up towards the moonlight. He’d only managed a small amount, but he was already feeling dizzy, despite how little he’d consumed. Back when Cutler had been alive, it took a lot more just to get him tipsy. Sobriety had dented his tolerance to alcohol.

Mirthless laughter bubbled up in his throat, and he knocked back the vodka again, trying to drown the anger that was growing in his chest, though it made him want to retch. He had promised Maxson he wouldn’t drink. Promised _himself_ that he would stay sober, that he wouldn’t become like Teagan.

The _inevitable._

Danse drew his legs up to his chest and hid his face in his knees. He was so tired of everything again. And despite a repeat performance of yesterday—yelling and storming off like a child, because he didn't like what he was hearing—right now he wanted Quinn. He wanted to hold her, to hear her tell him how it would be alright, that she was here for him. But he had treated her so appallingly tonight, Danse doubted she would follow him up here. More than likely she would go to sleep, and keep her distance tomorrow.

The fear in her eyes when he had sworn was as clear as day. Even thinking about it now made him feel sick. How could he have lost control like that?

Danse turned his head to the side and hit the bottle again, hating the taste, hating that he was replacing Quinn with...this. But right now, it was all he had.

There was a ping and the elevator doors slid open. Danse jumped. He hadn’t even realised it had gone back down to the lower level. He glanced up, half expecting to see Quinn packed up and ready to go, like she had almost done with her husband.

Nate, the broken soldier. Danse, the broken synth.

Quinn _was_ there, and she was carrying some form of box, a hard hat perched on her head. Danse’s heart sank, but he didn’t blame her. Then as she moved into the moonlight, he realised the box was a first aid kit, and stared bewildered at her as she sat down opposite him.

“Can I see your hand?” she asked.

Danse blinked stupidly and then held out his arm.

Quinn gave a patient smile. “The other one, silly.”

He glanced down and realised he was offering his uninjured hand. Mumbling an apology, Danse set down the bottle of vodka and complied with her request.

Quinn reached up to her hardhat and flicked on a torch that was attached to the front. A miner’s hat, perhaps? But he didn’t have time to think on this, as she took hold of his throbbing hand gently, and then, using a pair of shiny tweezers, began to carefully pick out the glass still stuck in his skin.

She worked in silence, hesitating every time he flinched with pain, until eventually all the glass was gone. Then she seized his half drunk vodka and saturated a clean cloth, dabbing it against the lacerations. The burning sensation was horrible, but Danse bit his lip and kept quiet. He deserved this.

When the wounds had been cleaned, she began to clumsily bandage his hand, and he couldn’t help but smile. Aware he was watching, she frowned, and he smirked—she was being stubborn again. Still, after a while, Quinn managed to make a decent job of it, and she sat back, taking off the hard hat as she admired her handiwork. But then she met his eye, and he knew they were going to have A Talk. Danse braced himself for the scolding.

“How are you feeling?” Quinn asked, holding his bandaged hand in both of her own.

“What?” He hadn’t been expecting _that._

“How are you feeling?” she said again.

“Absolutely fine,” Danse replied, and he cringed at the slur in his words, before turning his head away from her.

Quinn leaned forward and touched his cheek, and he glanced back at her apprehensively. She was smiling, though she was clearly anxious.

“Nothing you want to get off your chest? You said some...serious things down there. I just want to make sure—”

“I’ve been an idiot,” Danse interrupted, bowing his head. “I’ve been _pretending_ everything is fine.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Quinn said firmly. “You’ve been through a massive trauma. God knows I wouldn’t be able to cope with it. I don’t think you realise how resilient you are. You stagger me with how you endure the unendurable.”

“Suffering what is not sufferable,” Danse mumbled.

“What?”

“It’s from...” He saw the blank look on her face and shrugged. His head was too muggy to explain the book she had given him wasn't the first of its kind he had read. “Nevermind.”

There was a brief silence, and then Quinn suddenly looked disgusted with herself. “After everything that happened over Valentine, I’ve learned _nothing._ I should have been gentler. I let my frustration get ahead of your wellbeing, and I’m sorry.”

“No.” Danse shook his head. “I wouldn’t have listened. It _had_ to be this way.”

Quinn didn’t look convinced, but she smiled all the same, placing a soft kiss on his forehead and then smoothing back his hair. “You still haven’t answered my question. How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” Danse replied, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. “I drank again. Not a lot, but...”

“So?”

“No, it’s...I…” He would prefer she didn’t know the enormity of what he had done tonight, but now that he had broken his promise, he was going to need her help to fix things. And she wouldn’t be able to do that if she didn’t understand. Taking a deep breath, Danse recounted the years of his drinking to Quinn, ending the tale with Maxson’s intervention, and his private oath never to touch another drop.

When he opened his eyes, Danse was expecting contempt or disappointment. Instead, Quinn looked determined.

“So you’ve had a slip,” she said fiercely, squeezing his hand with great care. “It happens. Think I’ve not had my share of fuck ups?”

Quinn told him about her episode on the Prydwen, poisoning herself with whiskey. By the time she’d finished, Danse was horrified. How could they have allowed her to do that? But then he reminded himself that Quinn was a grown woman, and the Brotherhood was not her keeper.

But that didn’t make him feel any better about it. He pulled her forward into a hug, nuzzling her neck. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It needed to happen. It was the only way I could have got better.” She pulled back slightly and smiled. “But if you’re worried about drinking, then I’ll help you. We can stay sober together, yeah?”

Danse stared at her for a few seconds, stunned. A small gesture, and yet suddenly he knew. He _knew._

This intense feeling...Danse had never experienced it before. But he’d never thought someone could show him such devotion either. Quinn coloured the air with her affection. It was in everything she did, everything she said, even when she was misguided.

This...this was love.

And it wasn’t like the songs said, a skip of the heart or a twist of the stomach, though his were certainly doing both right now. He wasn’t flying on clouds or in a dream or seeing the world in a new light.

It just... _was._

“I…” Danse said, before his brain caught up with his mouth, and his confidence faltered. He wasn’t sure why he was so hesitant. He’d never been so certain of anything in his life. And she wouldn’t brush him off or shy away. If anything, he suspected Quinn felt the same. But to tell her was a huge step. He could keep this to himself for now.

“I think I’d like that,” Danse said, recovering quickly, and pulled her into a kiss. The alcohol was soothing his nerves at least. He clung to her, almost desperately, and as Quinn found her bearings, she reciprocated.

When they eventually broke apart, both slightly breathless, Quinn nodded to the open door.

“Come on, let’s go inside. I don’t like being so exposed.”

It took some effort to get on his feet, his body swaying as he tried to stand straight, and Quinn helped him walk back to the elevator. She turned to him, smirking. “I love how even when you’re drunk, you still sound like you’ve swallowed a thesaurus.”

“Inebriation is no excuse for being inarticulate,” Danse replied, managing to slur every ‘s’ spectacularly.

“Danse,” Quinn said, rolling her eyes as she started to giggle, “that’s plenty of excuse.”

He grinned back. “Not to me.”

* * *

The next morning, Danse woke up to a headache and Quinn draped across him like a set of bed sheets. The latter, he didn’t mind. The former, however…

Quinn mumbled and clung to him as he sat up, her eyes flicking open as he rubbed his forehead and groaned. She sat up herself, running a hand through her hair—was her hair different now? It looked different—and kissed him on the cheek.

“Water?”

“Please,” he replied, and then watched her get out of bed and walk across the room to look through the cupboards. As she bent over, his gaze trailed across her form, and something stirred within him. Then he blushed as he realised _where_ he was looking, and laid back down on the bed, covering his face with a pillow. Quinn deserved better than being gawked at.

Only when she returned to the bed, handing him a bottle of water, did Danse remove the pillow again, taking a few grateful gulps and spilling some down himself.

“Careful,” she said, smiling and wiping the water away from his chin. However, when he put the bottle down, she didn’t return to his side, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, frowning.

“Yeah, I’m just…” Quinn paused and then sighed. “We’ve been arguing a lot lately. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t concern me.”

Danse sat up properly now, his throat tight. “We’ve always bickered, haven’t we? I wasn’t expecting that to change.”

“This is different to bickering, though,” Quinn said, fidgeting. “This is proper arguing. You yelling, me saying hurtful shit. We’ve only been a couple for a few days and already we’ve had _two_ big arguments, one right after the other.” She met his eye. “Aren’t you worried?”

Danse considered this for a moment, and then shook his head.

“But—”

“Like you said to me last night,” Danse interrupted, reaching over and squeezing her hand, “a lot has happened. Not just to me, either, but to both of us. You’ve had to go through hell with all of this too, Quinn. And whether we were together or not, we would have argued about the things that have occurred recently. You would have still wanted me to go to see the syn… the detective, and I would have still been stubborn about it. You would have called me out for my…”

He hesitated, his brain automatically wanting to deny everything all over again. But Danse took a deep breath and forced the words out. “My delusions. My refusal to accept...to…” He closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. “I am a synth. And I’m an exile. My refusal to accept those things.”

Quinn shifted closer and leaned forward, hugging him. He held her, his fingers stroking her hair.

“You would have made sure I stopped lying to myself,” Danse went on, the strange feeling of lightness—the same as when he had left the detective agency—returning to him. “And I would have lost control the same.”

“You didn’t lose control.”

Danse pulled away from her. “I did, Quinn. I swore at you in anger and I drank alcohol. It’s behaviour I tolerate in others, but I don’t tolerate it in myself.”

Quinn didn’t reply to this.

“But we’re not arguing because we’re fed up of each other,” Danse continued. “We’re not annoying each other with our habits or our personalities. We’re dealing with heavy issues that _will_ cause conflict. And despite the arguments, they haven’t affected how I feel about you.” Danse paused, his face growing hot again. “If anything, I...I feel closer to you for them.”

She blinked in surprise, her own cheeks going pink.

Danse nodded. “I really do. In part because of your patience and your kindness, but also because I’m finally accepting the way things are. My life’s starting over. I need to come to terms with everything I’ve lost...”

He took hold of her hand pressed his lips to her fingers.

“...and everything I’ve gained.”

 Quinn’s flush deepened, but she smiled. “I’m glad you see it that way.”

Danse leaned in to kiss her, when she spoke again.

“And if you want to check out my ass when you think I’m not looking, you’re more than welcome to, y’know.”

“I—wait—no!” Danse spluttered, reeling back so sharply he nearly fell out of the bed. “I wasn’t! I didn’t! I mean, it’s very nice but I wouldn’t be so—!”

“Liar,” Quinn snickered, and then without warning, lunged forward and tickled him.

That did it. Danse yelped in surprise, twisting away from her wiggling fingers, but turned too hard. He toppled straight off the bed, and Quinn—who had been holding onto his arms when he fell—was dragged along with a loud shriek. They landed in a heap together, Quinn dissolving into a fit of giggles, and after a few seconds, Danse found he was laughing as well. Then, inevitably, it led to kisses—he could never get enough of them—followed by a quiet moment on the floor.

“I would prefer we stay in the bed for this next time,” Danse grumbled, his back hurting slightly.

Quinn propped herself up on her elbow and wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Oh, really?”

“I—not like that!” Danse said quickly, feeling himself go as red as a tato again. Why was she so good at placing him in these awkward conversations? “Not right now, at least. But —"

“Calm down,” she said, cutting off his panic with another kiss. “I’m just teasing. I’m in no rush for anything, I promise.”

Oh God. She had only been _joking._

He must have gone even redder, because Quinn quickly changed the subject.

“Any plans for what we’re going to do today?”

Danse nodded, feeling sombre again. He gestured to all the salvaged items from his time with the Brotherhood, including his flag. “All of this. If I’m moving on, then it has to go. I can’t keep pretending this is a part of my life anymore.”

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I do. Keeping it all is too risky.”

“You’re allowed to have some reminders of what you were,” she said, tracing her fingers along his jawline. “The problem only occurs when you start living in the past, too.”

“I don’t know how to walk that fine line.” He shut his eyes, sighing. “I don’t know how to keep that balance.”

“Then I’ll help you. Anything you need.”

Despite himself, Danse chuckled. Of course she would. He wouldn’t have expected anything less. “What’s your advice, then?”

“Well, for starters, using your paladin armour is a bad idea. Aside from drawing the wrong attention, it’s just too familiar to what you’re used to.” Quinn shrugged. “Maybe the same with your laser rifle, too.”

Danse winced. It made sense, of course, but the idea of abandoning his armour hurt. Still… “You’re right. The armour can be retired, but I’m keeping the gun.”

“Danse…”

“That rifle isn’t a relic from the Brotherhood. It’s a gift from you.” He sat up and gave her a stubborn look. “I’m keeping it by my side.”

Quinn laughed and got to her feet, dusting herself down. “Alright then. That’s fair enough.”

Together, they pottered around the bunker, Quinn cleaning up the mess from the previous night—causing a twinge of guilt in Danse’s stomach—while he sorted through everything she had saved from the Prydwen.

Most of his books, he kept, though it had taken a good ten minutes to convince himself that he could throw away the copies of the codex he had studied from training. Old bits of clothes and uniform went as well, with the exception of his very first issued jumpsuit, boots, and gloves. All of them were full of holes and tears.

His own personal shot glass was added to the throw pile so carelessly it shattered. He was never going to drink again.

The glass with the chip in the rim, however, stayed without question. Danse couldn’t let it go. He also kept the gun he had been working on, and his Brotherhood flag, which he had originally taken from the Citadel. He’d had that for as long as he’d been a soldier, and had used on more than one occasion to cover Cutler when he’d passed out in his bunk from an excessive night of drinking.

Danse frowned. How the hell had either of them gotten through training with the amount they’d drunk? He wasn’t sure which of them was worse. Whenever they’d been left together in any kind of social event, somehow they’d both ended up shamefully intoxicated.

To his great surprise, Danse didn’t feel upset about this. They had been stupid. They had been _young._ And he wouldn’t have traded a single second of it for all the common sense in the world.

“You okay?” Quinn said, wandering over, her arms full of cereal boxes.

Danse nodded. “Just sorting through ghosts as well as junk.”

Setting down the clutter, she slipped her arms around his waist. “You don’t need to do it all at once, y’know. Take a break.”

“Anything in mind?” he said, pressing his lips against hers. Then an idea struck him, and he blurted it out, “I still haven’t had a real chance to read your book yet.”

Quinn blinked and Danse immediately felt stupid. Why on earth would she want to sit there and watch him—?

“Would you read some of them out to me?” she asked, her face lighting up with delight. “You have such a great voice.”

It was Danse’s turn to blink in surprise. “I—well I—um...yes, if you want.”

Within minutes they were snuggled up together, Quinn leaning against him while he read, her eyes alert. Every so often, she’d tell him a little titbit of knowledge about one of the poems, whether it was about the author or the event in question, or just a general slice of trivia from centuries past.

Eventually, Danse set down the book, frowning. “How do you know all of this?”

Quinn shrugged. “I like history. I learned some of this in high school, but a lot of it at home while I was pregnant.”

“But...whenever I’ve asked you about history…”

“You ask me about life when the bombs fell,” Quinn replied, looking distant all of a sudden. “That’s not a place I want to dwell.”

Well, the detective had been right after all.

“I’m sorry,” Danse said after a short pause.

Quinn snuggled into his shoulder. “It’s fine. You were just curious. And I found that cute.”

“Cute?”

“Don’t try to deny it.” She grinned. “You’re fucking adorable.”

Danse huffed, turning the page over, and Quinn laughed, hugging his arm as he continued to read. She told him about Veterans Day and Memorial Day, and the meaning of the red poppies, taken from France and the poem, _‘In Flanders Fields.’_

“The poppies were used on Memorial Day,” Quinn said, tracing the worn pages with her finger. “Nate always liked them and used to get really pissed off at people who refused to get one.” She smiled to herself, far away.

Suddenly feeling awkward, Danse shifted his gaze to the next poem, and began to read again.

_“Here dead we lie, because we did not choose...to live and shame the land...from which we sprung.”_

His throat tightened as he stared at the next verse—the final verse—a chord struck within him. He thought of Cutler, and of himself. Of everything that had happened in the last few months.

_“Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose...but young men think it is. And we were young.”_

Quinn must have noticed his shift in mood, because she pushed herself up and kissed him on the cheek, using her other hand to close the book. Her thumb stroked his chin as her breath tickled his skin, and she smiled.

“Talk to me.”

Danse felt the immediate excuse of ‘I’m fine’ begin to surface, but he cut it off. There were no secrets with Quinn. “Cutler.”

He half expected her to say ‘Again?’ After all, that was exactly how he felt. But she squeezed his arm gently and waited for him to continue.

“I should be over his death by now,” Danse said, leaning back against the headboard and closing his eyes. “I should be over this. But I’m not. It’s stupid.”

“I don’t think you’ve grieved for him properly.”

His eyes snapped open and he glanced down at her. “What?”

Quinn shrugged. “You haven’t grieved for him properly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When he died, did you give yourself time to work through the whole thing, or did you just get drunk and then carry on with your regular duties?”

Danse frowned. After Maxson had helped pull himself together, he had returned to his normal schedule. Thrown himself into work...taken his mind off things. Mostly avoided Marguerie and the Coopers, because they kept trying to _talk_ about it with him. And after a while, everyone had gotten the message. Danse wanted to be left alone.

“I should be over this by now,” Danse repeated, avoiding the question.

Quinn sat up straight and shook her head. “You grieve in your own time. It isn’t a straight process. Some days are better than others, but there will always be a piece of you missing. It’s not about ignoring the hole or trying to fill it...just learning to accept that it’s there.” She touched his hand. “You haven’t done that, have you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“And that’s okay, too.” Quinn paused, her cheeks going pink. “You’ve helped me so much with...with my losses. And I know I mention Nate a lot sometimes and Shaun, but…”

She gave a little shrug of her own. “It’s like Cutler, y’know? The acceptance will come in time. Might take months. Years. Maybe decades. But it’ll happen. And…” Now her face was turning red. “I’m so glad I met you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. His mouth opened and closed a few times, feeling more and more stupid as he left her declaration hanging in the air. But then Danse caught her eye, and he realised words didn’t have to pass between them. She knew what she meant to him.

Quinn was right, though. The dead would linger with both of them for years to come. Perhaps forever. And there was nothing wrong with that. Cutler had never gotten over the death of his mother, something that had happened not long after they had met in Rivet City. It had brought him and Danse together, kept them close, and driven them to move on towards the Brotherhood when the recruiter had visited.

_“What else have I got here?” Cutler drained the last of his beer and shrugged at Danse as he set the bottle down. “Mom’s dead. Only thing keeping me on this damn boat is her old business, and even that doesn’t bring much in.” Cutler paused. “And you. But this could be a chance to get out of my nowhere life.”_

_Danse nodded, finishing his own drink. “Then let’s go.”_

_Cutler’s mouth fell open. “You mean it? You really mean it?”_

Of course he had meant it. Even if the Brotherhood hadn’t appealed to him at all, he would have gone for Cutler’s sake. They had been a team. They watched each other’s backs.

And so they’d joined.

Quinn’s gentle touch brought him back to earth with a bump, and he pulled her close, needing her more than ever. So much death. So much loss. The wasteland was full of it, but sometimes it struck too close to home. And not always for himself. The tape that they had found today…

As soon as he had heard it, the toymaker had sprung to mind, hunched and frail, avoiding eye contact when their conversation had become confrontational. The ghoul had mentioned a daughter, but never said what had happened to her. And now Danse knew. This information had left him feeling uncomfortable, though he couldn’t say _why._ There was just a hint of unease, mingled with...shame?

Danse kneaded his forehead, trying to force the unwanted thoughts out of his head.

“Everything okay?”

It was like Quinn was tuned to him. She was able to pick on his mood without him making a single utterance.

He opened his mouth to tell her something—exactly what, he didn’t know—when he spied the holotape they’d taken from the toy offices on a table near the bed. An idea suddenly struck him.

Danse glanced at Quinn, and a smile spread across his face.

“What?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“How would you feel about a trip to the Slog?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m away this weekend, so have another early chapter! Usual thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning. :)


	49. Toys and Tribulations

Quinn could feel the apprehension building up inside her as they made their way to the Slog. Months had passed since their journey to the little settlement so long ago, and Danse hadn’t made the best impression. Still, he had also helped save their lives. That had to count for something.

But what worried her more than the reception was the package she carried. A holotape, which belonged to a very old, very kind toymaker.

Quinn could feel eyes on her from every point in town. She didn’t blame them. For ghouls, Brotherhood meant trouble, and her armour stated her allegiance plainly. Wiseman looked nervous as they approached him.

His expression changed to one of cheer as Quinn removed her helmet, and he walked towards her, smiling. “Hey! Look who it is!”

The other ghouls glanced up, and spotting Quinn, waved enthusiastically at her. She grinned and waved back, and then turned to Wiseman again. However, he was looking past her to the other person in power armour, standing on the outskirts of the settlement, still wearing his helmet.

“Is that Paladin Danse?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Looks a lil’ different since he was last here with you.”

“No,” Quinn replied, fixing Wiseman with a hard stare. “Paladin Danse was executed about a month ago for betraying the Brotherhood of Steel. That’s just a friend of mine from Diamond City.”

Wiseman glanced from Quinn to Danse and back again, and then gave Quinn a knowing look. “I think we’re on the same page.” He raised his voice and said, “Shame, really. That Paladin Danse guy wasn’t so bad in my book. Especially when he took the time to help us out.”

Quinn watched as Danse flinched and jerked his head in their direction, before quickly looking away again.

“Thank you,” she said, glad her trust in Wiseman wasn’t unfounded.

“Don’t mention it. Can’t imagine what happened to cause them to do _that_ to him, but he saved our lives. He’s alright, as far as I’m concerned.” Wiseman leaned against the wall and produced a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Quinn. When she declined, he shrugged and took one out, lighting it and puffing a cloud of smoke into the air before saying, “So, how can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Arlen Glass. Is he around?”

“Yeah, in his usual space, when he’s not being hounded by—"

“Hello, Quinn,” said a familiar wavery voice. “Has life been treating you kind?”

Both Wiseman and Quinn turned around to see Arlen Glass standing at the door of his workshop, smiling.

“As kind as it can be,” Quinn said, signalling to Danse and then getting out of her power armour. “Is there somewhere private we can go, please? I have something that belongs to you. Something I found.”

Arlen looked puzzled, but nodded, gesturing her to step into his workshop. “Sure.”

Quinn glanced over to Danse and beckoned furiously for him to follow, but he stayed where he was. She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him, and after a few painful seconds, he strode over, keeping his head down despite wearing his _X-01_ series helmet.

“Is that...?” Arlen said, staring up at Danse as he approached.

“Mr. Glass,” replied Danse, sounding awkward.

“I’d heard of the...unfortunate demise of Paladin Danse through the door of my workshop, Quinn.” He smiled at Danse. “But I’m happy that you found a new travelling companion.”

Danse hesitated and then nodded.

“Shall we?” Quinn said, and followed Arlen inside, while Danse stood at the door.

“I’ll give you guys some privacy,” Wiseman called from behind her. “Nice to see you both again!”

As Arlen turned to face her, Quinn stuck her hand inside her pocket and produced the holotape, handing it to him.

“A holotape?” He frowned as he turned it over in his hands, and then walked over to his workshop terminal muttering, “Let’s see now…”

There was a clunk and a whir as the tape started, and then he gave a tremulous gasp as the woman on the recording said, _“Go ahead…”_

Arlen mumbled to himself as the recording played, talking to the echo of the little girl, his shoulders slumped with grief, staring at his terminal. When it was over, there was a long silence, until eventually he glanced at Quinn.

“I...I...give me a minute.” Arlen turned away from her, wiping his face with his trembling hands. When he faced her again, his cheeks were wet. He tried to speak a few times, his lips moving wordlessly, before eventually managing to say, “It’s been so long...I never thought I’d hear their voices again. You can’t imagine what this means to me.”

“It’s a long story, but...I lost my family, too. My son and my husband.” Suddenly there was no one here but her and Arlen Glass. This has become private. Personal.

He gave her a weak smile. “Then maybe you can understand.” Arlen gave a small, weary shrug. “She was right, you know? I did work too much. And now...I’ll never hear her voice again—never get to hold her, kiss her goodnight—”

His voice broke and he stopped, rubbing at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, shaking his head. “All I have left are the memories.” Arlen gestured to the terminal. “And this tape. As one parent to another... _thank you.”_

“What…?” Quinn licked her lips, unsure if she was overstepping her bounds. “What happened to them?”

Arlen didn’t speak for a moment. “We had an apartment, in Cambridge. I went to the office that morning, to try to talk to Marc again. When...when it all happened, I tried to get back, but the city was in chaos. By the time I got home...there was only a crater.” Arlen look back at the terminal, and this time, he let the tears fall. “I lay down in the ruins. I...I just wanted to _die._ Instead...I woke up like this.”

“And you used your condition to carry on your work,” said Danse behind her, making both Quinn and Arlen jump. She had forgotten he was there. His form filled the entire doorway. Danse paused and then said, “Like you told me last time, when I gave you my...when we parted ways. The world could do with more happiness.”

Quinn glanced from Danse to Arlen, feeling like she was missing something, and then turned her attention back to the ghoul. “All these years…you never gave up, did you? You’re still working too much.”

“I suppose so,” Arlen replied with another sad shrug. “We made toys. We made children happy.” He smiled. “That’s all that mattered. And as long as I can still do that, I will. It’s the least I can do. For her.”

“What now?” Quinn asked.

“I...I can’t possibly repay you for this. Here.” Arlen emptied his pockets and shoved handfuls of caps into Quinn’s hands, despite her protests. “Take...take everything I have. It’s not much, but…”

“Arlen, you don’t need to—”

“And one more thing. I was saving this for her birthday. All these years, it was all I had to remember her by…” Arlen picked up a Buttercup toy off the shelf and passed it to Danse.

Danse and Quinn looked at each other, but before Quinn could say a word, Arlen leaned over to his terminal and pressed a few buttons. The recording started again, and Arlen Glass was quickly lost in a world of his own.

_“Hi, Daddy! When are you coming home?”_

* * *

Both of them were unusually quiet on the trip back to the bunker. Quinn dumped the caps on the table, not wanting to look at them, let alone touch them, and then went and lay down on the bed, her head a mess. The conversation with Arlen had drudged up long suppressed feelings about Shaun and Nate, and it was all she could do but bury her head in her pillow and cry. She tried to stay quiet, but after a few minutes, Danse sat down next to her and tugged at her arm until she relented and let him hold her. Only then did she weep properly.

When it was all out of her system, she glanced up at Danse and smiled, but he didn’t return it, absent-mindedly stroking her cheek with his thumb as he sat there, deep in thought.

“Everything alright?” she asked, sitting up and kissing him on the nose.

“Yes,” he replied, but she could tell he wasn’t being truthful.

Deciding not to push him this time, Quinn stood up and made dinner while Danse sat on the bed for a while, staring out into the distance, before eventually sloping off to work on his power armour. Quinn frowned. Normally he’d offer to help, or at least stand with her and talk while she cooked, trying to learn.

When dinner was served, he was still quiet, picking at his food and avoiding Quinn’s eye, instead looking at his bowl.

“I know I’m not that great of a cook,” Quinn said through a mouthful of squirrel—or what she _hoped_ was squirrel—stew. “But you could at least try it.”

“I’m…” Danse sighed. “Sorry. I’m just preoccupied at the moment.”

“I noticed.”

Danse gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I’ve been thinking about Arlen Glass and Marlene. I...I didn’t expect him to care after so many years. That…”

He struggled to continue, and all at once Quinn sensed change in the air. The fact he had suggested they take the tape to Arlen at all had made her hopeful that something was shifting within him. Whether the talk with Nick or the passage of time was the cause, Quinn didn’t know. She didn’t care either. The result was all that mattered to her. And now it seemed she was about to be proved right.

“For as long as I’ve remembered, I’ve treated them...ghouls...differently,” Danse forced out. “I never hurt one without good reason, and I disapproved of anyone who did, but…”

Danse set down his spoon, staring at his bowl of uneaten food, his discomfort rolling off him in waves.

“I’ve had the sudden, horrible feeling that my behaviour over the years has been completely unjustified. That I’ve been...wrong. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Y’know,” Quinn said, standing up and moving around the table, placing a hand on Danse’s back, a warm feeling in her chest. “When I first saw a super mutant up close, I froze, and one of my friends was badly hurt. Speared right in the middle with a sharpened car bumper. I blamed myself, but then someone else took me to one side and told me, _‘Don’t dwell on it. Just do better next time. For yourself and for them.’”_

Danse frowned and then said, “Are you talking about—?”

“Yes, silly,” Quinn replied, grinning. “I’m talking about you. Fort Strong? We were sat in the sickbay with Carson afterwards.”

“I don’t remember that conversation.”

“But I do. And I’ve never forgotten it, because you were right.” She sat on the table and took his hand in her own. “Sure, you’ve been an ass to ghouls in the past, but moping about it won’t solve anything. You know different now. Learn from it. And do better.”

A series of emotions flickered across his face. Dismay. Defiance. Determination.

“I will.” He frowned. “It’ll be a long road to unpick everything I thought I knew...to turn from what I was taught. By wastelanders and by the Brotherhood. But I _will_ do it. I will be better.”

Quinn believed him.

* * *

_One...two...three...four…_

Slipping away from Quinn’s embrace had been difficult that morning, but it had to be done. He had been lazy for far too long.

_Forty-three...forty-four…_

Over the weeks since the Slog, things had gone from strange and new to sweet and familiar. Danse had settled into life with her so quickly, he was staggered that he’d known anything different. And there was the occasional awkward moment. Not that he was a newcomer to relationships or intimacy, but this was…

_One hundred and twenty-six...one hundred and twenty-seven…_

Well. Like nothing he had ever experienced before. When all the kisses were said and done, and all that remained was _them,_ they’d still found things to talk about. To laugh over. To explore together. And while Danse was not a particularly affectionate person, he could lay for hours with Quinn, content in her company.

_Two hundred and seventy-eight...two hundred and seventy-nine…_

And there had been...other feelings.

Danse felt his cheeks burn, and he paused, sweat dripping down his forehead. Where was he up to now? Three hundred? His arms began to ache in earnest as he struggled to remember, and he shook his head, before taking his best guess.

_Two hundred and fifty...two hundred and fifty-one…_

As he lowered himself into another pushup, his thoughts drifted back to _that_ topic. Yes, he’d been thinking about it for a while now. Not deliberately, but she was just so damn…

Quinn mumbled from the bed next to him and turned over in her sleep. Danse paused, watching her with a smile, and then remembered himself.

_Where was…?_

_Two hundred and fifty...two hundred and fifty-one…_

He kept trying to tell himself that it was nothing he hadn’t done before, that it was bound to happen eventually, that it would be the same as any other time he’d slept with someone. But had any of them meant as much to him as Quinn? And it had been a while, after all. What if it went wrong? What if she didn’t enjoy it? What if…

What if all those past experiences weren’t real?

The sick feeling returned to his stomach. And there was the biggest problem of all. No matter what he thought or what he felt, it always came back to the same things: worry, paranoia, confusion.

Danse stopped, realising he had lost count again.

“God damn it!”

“Mm?”

Danse glanced up to see Quinn looking at him through bleary eyes. She blinked a few times and then grinned, propping herself up to get a better view of him.

“Don’t stop on my account, handsome.”

Danse flushed again, feeling on the spot—this was precisely why he’d gotten up before her—but he complied with her request. With her eyes on him, he finally decided to abandon counting altogether. Her presence was far too distracting for that.

After a minute of silent watching, though, Quinn stood up, and Danse wondered if she was bored. He would be, watching someone else exercise. Maybe he’d stop now, pick this up later...after all, she could be returning to the Prydwen any day. Every second with her was precious.

Instead, Quinn laid down on the floor, scooting herself directly underneath him.

“I can’t effectively train if you’re blocking my movements, Quinn,” he said, frowning a little.

Her grin widened. “Try a pushup. For me.”

Now he was extremely confused. At best, she’d get in the way. At _worst,_ he might headbutt her nose. Still, he knew that mischievous smile, and part of him wondered what she was up to. Slowly, he lowered himself down, his curiosity guiding him.

Quinn tilted her head up and kissed him.

Danse drew away, surprised, and she giggled, shifting a little on the floor. He blinked, and then a smile grew on his own face as he descended again.

When their lips met, he held himself there, ignoring his protesting muscles as Quinn draped her arms around his neck, raising her hips slightly to meet his. Rising up, he became aware that she had drawn her knees up, her legs either side of him. Something panicked within him, but he disregarded it as he did a third pushup, his mind starting to cloud over with other thoughts.

This time, Danse went as far as he could go, his arms straining with fatigue, his body so temptingly close to hers, hovering above her. She went to kiss him and he moved back slightly, teasing her.

Was it just teasing? The urge to pull away completely was nestled there, fear tugging at him as he forced himself to focus on Quinn. His lips brushed against hers while she made every effort to pull him closer. Despite his conflict, he was getting excited as her frustration became increasingly obvious.

She hooked her legs around him, trying everything from gentle touches with her fingers to the softest of bites on his neck, the way she knew he liked it. Danse shivered, his body reacting to her own teasing, but determined not to give in, even when he heard himself groan as her teeth nipped his skin.

Only when Quinn mumbled, _“Please,”_ did he break. Impulse took over, and he dropped himself onto his forearms, pressing against her as they kissed, her hands clutching at his hair as his lips explored her mouth, her neck, her collarbone...

All of a sudden, he felt her hand slip down, resting on his crotch. A breathy noise escaped before he could stop himself, and a smirk spread over her face.

“Feel good?” she asked, softly kissing his cheeks.

Danse nodded, but when he tried to speak, his words caught in his throat as she began to move her fingers together in a gentle circle, with just enough pressure that he could feel her through his pants. He bowed his head, caught off guard.

God, he wanted her. Right here, right now. But the seed of anxiety in his chest was growing. Quinn was there and she was so _beautiful,_ and he was feeling…

Feeling...

“Danse?”

Danse blinked, and it took a few seconds to realise Quinn had stopped, cupping his face as she struggled to sit up.

His heart started to race. Had he ruined the moment? Perhaps he could still fix this if he—

He tried to kiss her again, but Quinn put her hand in front of his mouth, shaking her head. The game was up. He rolled off her, propping himself against the bed, anger starting to creep into him as his chest heaved with panic. All he wanted was a normal relationship. Was that too much to ask?

Quinn sat in front of him, her hands clamped on her lap as she considered him. “What’s wrong?”

Danse almost didn’t answer. Personal things were already difficult to talk about, but…

He rubbed his forehead, hating the burning sensation in his cheeks, but Quinn waited patiently, and he knew he had to tell her.

“I just...I _want_ to. But I...I can’t.” Danse stared at the floor. “There’s...too much in my head.”

Quinn reached out to him, and then hesitated, watching him carefully. Only when he gave her a weak smile did she touch his hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Danse frowned.

“Okay.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand?” She gave his fingers a little squeeze. “You’re not ready. That’s all there is to it.”

“But I _should_ be able to—”

“If it was the other way around,” Quinn interrupted, fixing him with a stern look, “would you want to carry on?”

“No!” said Danse at once, horrified by the very thought.

“There you are, then.” Her face relaxed. “It’s no different when it’s you.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Danse mulling over this, until he noticed Quinn hadn’t moved from her spot, deliberately keeping her distance. Once again, those three words were on his tongue, as they had been for many weeks now, but Danse held it back. His mind had taken enough of a beating for one day. Instead, he tugged her towards him and held her close, kissing the top of her head.

“You’re too good to me,” he mumbled into her hair.

“I disagree,” Quinn replied, turning to face him and stroking his cheek.

“You always disagree with me.”

“Keeps you on your toes, though.”

Danse laughed, squeezing her slightly, and she grinned back.

* * *

Leaving Danse behind again felt harder than the first time. Quinn wasn’t sure why. He’d improved dramatically since then. Maybe it was because he’d be alone. Or maybe it was because she’d gotten so used to sleeping at his side. But when Haylen had sent an encrypted message through to Danse, telling him that Maxson had sent out orders for Quinn to return to the Prydwen, she knew she’d have to obey them.

But despite this, she was finding it very difficult to let him go. And for once, Danse wasn’t arguing with her to leave, either.

They stood holding each other tight inside the elevator. Quinn tried to take in every detail: the warmth of his skin, the smell of him, the way he played with her hair as he pressed his mouth to the top of her head.

But then the dread _ping_ arrived, and after a few seconds, Quinn forced herself away. As she tried to leave, however, he took hold of her arm and dragged her back into a fierce kiss. For a second, Quinn was ready to abandon her return altogether.

“Stay safe,” he said, touching her cheek. “I lo…” He paused, and then tried again. “If I lost you...I don’t know what I’d do.”

Quinn nodded, her eyes stinging. “Keep hidden. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

The elevator doors slid shut as they kissed, throwing them in darkness, and she wanted nothing more than to remain. But then the moment passed, and she hit the button to open them again, striding off without a backwards glance. One hesitation would be all it took for her to go running to him, and then they’d have to pry themselves apart a second time. This way was quick and clean.

Quick and clean.

Tears streamed down Quinn’s cheeks as she walked across the wasteland alone, her rifle tight in her trembling fists. She’d be going straight back after she paid her obligatory visit to the Prydwen. Why did this hurt so much?

Maybe it was because Deacon’s words were ringing in her head.

_“...by the time they do something you find bad, it might be too late to leave.”_

It _was_ too late. But not in the way Deacon had predicted. She couldn’t leave the Prydwen behind now, abandon Carson and Rachel and all the others. Her team. Her friends.

Her eyes had dried by the time she reached the ship, though the pain in her heart still stung. Already she was wondering if Danse was alright, if he was safe on his own, if he’d be lonely, if there was anything else she could have done for him before she’d left…

_He’s not a child,_ Quinn thought irritably to herself as she clambered aboard a vertibird, and then clutched her stomach as it shot up into the sky. _Stop treating him like he can’t look after himself._

But it had been the same with Nate, at his worst. Constant mothering and anxiety, trying to make sure he was alright. At first, Nate had been annoyed by it, even offended, but eventually had realised she wasn’t doing it because he wasn’t capable.

_“It’s because you care,” said Nate, kissing her forehead. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”_

There was a jolt as the vertibird boarded, and Quinn stood up, feeling slightly sick. Staggering off the aircraft, she walked across the deck and inside. Her feet clanged on the metal walkways, and Quinn frowned, glancing around as her footsteps echoed.

Quinn strolled through the halls, looking for Carson. Without Danse, she felt as hollow as the ship. Even though her pining would pass, a talk with her friend over a box of Sugar Bombs wouldn’t go amiss. However, he was nowhere in sight. Come to think of it, neither was anyone else.

The Prydwen was strangely empty, its patrols nearly all gone, the mess hall barren, and the bunks deserted.

_Where the hell is everyone?_

As Quinn marched back across towards her room, she spied Josh, standing to attention, guarding the lonely corridor. His eyes flicked towards her, and he straightened up, quickly looking away.

“Ma’am,” he said as she approached.

“Relax, Josh. I won’t tell your mom.”

His whole body crumpled into a state of ease, and he grinned at her. “Hey, Quinn.”

“Where is everyone?” Quinn gestured vaguely around her.

The boy frowned. “I don’t know. Mom and Dad went out a few hours ago and said I had to stay with Auntie Michelle tonight. They looked...I don’t know.” Josh scuffed his shoes on the floor. “They’ve never had to go out at the same time before.”

The worry in his face was clear to see, even if he didn’t know how to express it. He chewed his lip and twisted his hands together, staring at his feet. Quinn crouched down and smiled.

“They’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” She gave his shoulder a little shake. “In the meantime, you look after Michelle, alright? I’m sure she could do with your help when she starts flapping over test papers.”

Josh giggled and nodded, and Quinn stood up, leaving him to his duties. But as she moved out of his sight, the smile slipped from her face. Both his parents had been sent out? That, coupled with the sudden absence of nearly everyone on the ship, had her concerned.

Something big was happening.

She decided to head down to the sickbay, where at least one of three people were guaranteed to be. In fact, there were two of them. Kapraski and Cade glanced up, wearing matching expressions of confusion as she entered the room.

“Ma’am?” said Cade, setting down a handful of med-x on his desk. “What are you doing here?”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I only just got back. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

The two men exchanged glances, and Kapraski’s face paled.

“I thought Liam would be with you,” he whispered, struggling to sit up as his eyes widened with fear. “I thought he’d be safe. I thought you were looking after him!”

“Tom, lie back down,” Cade said sharply, and when Kapraski ignored him, he strode across to the gurney and forced the lancer to obey. Cade turned to Quinn, holding a struggling Kapraski down effortlessly with one hand. “You should go see Elder Maxson, ma’am. I think he has work for you.”

The look Cade was giving her said it all.

_Go. Go now._

Quinn did as she was told. She ran through the Prydwen, her heart racing as she threw herself at the ladders, hauling herself up them. Her hands slipped with sweat, her feet missing rungs with haste, but eventually she pulled herself to the top.

“Sir!” she called from down the hallway.

Elder Maxson turned from his window, a look of relief gracing his features, before being replaced by irritation.

“There you are,” he snapped, standing still and letting her approach him. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.”

“Sir,” Quinn repeatedly breathlessly. “Where is everyone? Are we in trouble? What can I do to help?”

Unlike his earlier relief, Maxson’s surprise was blatantly obvious. Did he really think she was completely devoid of loyalty to any part of the Brotherhood? Her friends’ lives could be at stake, and they mattered more to her than words could describe.

“I commend your enthusiasm,” Maxson said after an awkward pause. “I had thought it beyond you at this point, given the past...difficulties you’ve faced with us.”

Quinn waited, tense, wanting him to get to the damn issue already. Maxson must have sensed her impatience, because he cleared his throat and went on.

“While the finishing touches are being put onto Liberty Prime, Captain Kells has identified a potential threat to our operations.” He pointed down the hall to Kells’ office. “Report to him immediately for your next assignment. Ad victoriam, Paladin.”

Quinn saluted him and went on her way, more vexed than ever. Couldn’t he have just told her there and then what was happening?

_Potential threat to our operations…_

What the hell did that mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! And thanks for all the reviews!
> 
> I forgot I was in Austria until Sunday. So have another early chapter. Hopefully I’ll be back to my normal schedule next week. :P


	50. Liar

“Hey, Quinn!”

Quinn froze, shooting a glance at Josh, who was watching her from down the corridor. His smile faded as he flinched at the look on her face, suddenly shying away from her.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he whispered, now sounding close to tears. “I didn’t mean to...I’m sorry.”

In that moment, Quinn’s decision was reaffirmed. Her soul felt like it was breaking, but there was no other option. She couldn’t risk his life, risk everyone else’s lives for the sake of her morals, Maxson’s stupidity be damned.

God, how could they have put her in this position?

“Josh,” she said, her voice breaking as she tried to keep calm. “First sign of trouble, first sign of _anyone_ on this ship that you don’t recognise, you need to tell Elder Maxson, y’hear?”

The uncertain fear in his young face was plain to see. “But...Elder Maxson is—”

“Josh!” Her voice ripped through the air like a whip, and this time his lip trembled. But Quinn didn’t care. He _needed_ to understand. “If you see anyone at all you don’t recognise, you raise the alarm. That’s an order!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“And tell everyone else that order comes directly from me!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Quinn crouched down and pulled him into a fierce hug. She had already lost Shaun. She couldn’t cope with the idea of another dead child. Another piece of broken innocence.

“Stay safe,” Quinn mumbled, and then she let the bewildered boy go, striding over to the workstations and climbing into her power armour. The hardest battle of her life was awaiting her, one vertibird ride away.

She was going to become a murderer.

* * *

Only half an hour earlier, Quinn had been ignorant to what horrors would greet her that day. She had strode to Kells’ corner of the world, confused and worried, but otherwise untainted. Then he had told her what was expected of her. She had asked him to repeat it. He had done so. Quinn had asked him to repeat it _again,_ and he gave her a look of annoyance.

“You have your orders, Paladin. Seek out the leaders of the Railroad and eliminate them. I can’t make it plainer than that. Dismissed.”

No. No, no, no. Oh God no. Not the Railroad. Not Deacon. Not her friend.

Appealing to Kells’ was pointless. The man had no trace of compassion in his nature. He wouldn’t care that she had grown to like the idiot with the sunglasses, despite how little she knew about him. He wouldn’t understand that even with the differences in the banners they walked under, she saw him as her friend.

And Kells certainly wouldn’t approve that she thought the Railroad were good people, helping the most downtrodden souls of the entire Commonwealth. They deserved to die for wanting others to live?

No, Kells wouldn’t understand.

But Maxson might. He had spared Danse after all.

And so she had ran—no, _sprinted—_ back to Maxson’s office, snapping at his guards that she needed a private word with him. The Elder had glanced over with a raised eyebrow, saw the distress in every molecule of her being, and given a curt nod to the armoured knights that flanked his station.

When they had left, he turned fully to face her, and waited.

She didn’t know where to start. And so she babbled. She told him everything: the courser chip and the meetings with Deacon, long before she had joined the Brotherhood. The way Deacon had tried to coax her over to their side, and she had said no, because she had _believed_ in the Brotherhood. But most importantly, she insisted that the Railroad were not bad people.

“They aren’t our enemy, sir, and neither are their synths,” Quinn said desperately, clenching her fists so hard her body trembled. “Both the Railroad and the synths they save want to see the Institute burn as much as we do. If we can come to an agreement, we can help each other.”

She paused, trying to catch her breath, and noticed Maxson’s face had remained perfectly blank throughout her plea. This was...strange. Where was the anger, the self-righteousness he had displayed when confronting Danse at the bunker? Despite choosing to come to Maxson, she had still expected some form of disgust on his part. Instead...nothing.

Quinn tried again. “Please, sir. Help me. Just... _help me.”_

His expression softened for a moment. Then Maxson picked up a folder off a nearby table and handed it to her without a word.

The file was thick and heavy, packed with pictures and notes. Information on Desdemona. Tinker Tom. Glory. Drummer Boy. The only profile that was mostly blank was Deacon’s, but even this couldn’t bring her to smile. Because the next page made her heart stop as she saw the words _‘Red Glare.’_

The more she read, the more her world fell apart. A plan to infiltrate the Brotherhood, board the Prydwen, and detonate it from within.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her fingers running down the side of the page that detailed the specifics. Using the ship’s own reactors against them? Genius. But…

“I wasn’t aware that you had contact with the Railroad until now,” Maxson said. She looked up and saw he was frowning.

“I didn’t know about this,” Quinn said quickly, aghast. “I never saw them as a threat. I never thought them as anything other than…”

“I know,” Maxson interrupted, and once again the gentle expression returned. “Your reaction has said more than enough. That, and you bargained for their lives rather than trying to help them escape.”

“Sir, can’t we negotiate with—?”

“No.”

“But—”

“This plan of theirs has been in the making for some time. It’s only recently, when Brotherhood uniforms went missing and a man was seen carrying them away, that we were alerted to the plot. What was initially an investigation for a simple theft and disciplinary action soon turned into this.” He motioned to the folder in her hand. “Using uniforms is one of the first possible stages of their plan. Either they’re mobilising to attack, or they’re getting close to it. And waiting to find out which is not a risk I’m willing to take.”

“What did this man look like?” Quinn wasn’t sure why she was asking. She already knew the answer.

“He was wearing sunglasses. An insufficient description, but it drew the attention of an officer for its breach in the dress code.”

Sunglasses. Her heart was racing. There was only one man cocky enough to pair sunglasses with every _fucking_ disguise he wore.

“Move the Prydwen,” Quinn said, knowing how unreasonable she sounded. “If they’re that much of a threat, back off.”

“We’re a military organisation, not children cowering at the first sign of danger.”

“Funny, because I sure as hell see a lot of children on this ship!” Quinn snapped, drinking in his shock. “You’re putting their lives at risk with your pigheadedness! I won’t allow it!”

“And neither will I!” Maxson hissed, his eyes lighting up with a strange fury. “I won’t let them come to harm, but I won’t leave them trapped and isolated on the Citadel, either!”

An odd silence fell over them, and Quinn could see by the look on his face he felt that he had said too much. He stepped back, avoiding her eye for a moment. When his gaze fell on her again, Elder Maxson had returned.

“That is why your orders are to attack,” he said, his voice hard and indifferent. “And because of your absence, the battle has been sent ahead without you. My men and women will be at the hideout already, and it’s your duty to see the fight through. To protect their lives and lead them as I _know_ you can.”

Quinn went cold. She had suspected, but also hoped...Carson. Rachel. The Coopers. They were fighting right now, without her. Possibly dying, because she wasn’t by their sides. And as Maxson had ordered the first blow, if the Railroad escaped, then they _would_ strike back.

“You need to choose, Paladin,” Maxson said, fixing her with a piercing glare. “Them or us. Because if this conflict is not dealt with _now,_ it is the Brotherhood who will be destroyed.”

Quinn took a few deep breaths through her nose, holding the file close to her chest. All those lives. On the ground. In the sky. All of it depended on her.

Finally, she met his eyes. Hating him. Hating herself.

“Us.”

* * *

The vertibird descended out of the sky, jolting her from her thoughts. Quinn cast her eyes down to the sprawling ruins of Boston, her throat tight. She had never been so afraid. This wasn’t something outside of her control. It wasn’t like watching Nate through frosted glass, or seeing Danse lined up for execution. She could walk away now and leave the sorry lot of them to their fates. She didn’t _have_ to take part in this.

Her choice. And yet still she felt trapped

“Ma’am,” the pilot said as the vertibird lowered itself into the depths of the city.

Quinn stood up, shaking, feeling like she was about to be sick. There was no escape. Whatever she did, she would never be able to live with herself.

“Good luck, ma’am.”

“Fly safe,” she whispered. Quinn had no idea if he heard her, but she didn’t stay to find out. The church awaited her, and already she could see the bodies piled outside. With so much blood, it was impossible to tell which side they fought for, and in the end, what did it matter?

Death did not care for the flags they bore.

Readying her gun, Quinn took a deep breath and opened the door to the battle.

Before she’d so much as stepped over the threshold, a bullet pinged off her helmet, her would-be assassin cursing, before screaming as fire lit up around him. The Molotov cocktail consumed him greedily, and she watched, frozen in place, as the young man’s skin peeled and singed away. Then his head snapped back as a well place shot ended his agony.

“Quinn!” someone yelled.

Quinn regained her senses, darting across the church and taking cover behind an upturned pew. Pitiful cover, but it meant she moved out of the way just in time, a grenade that had been intended for her soaring out through the open door and into the street.

Next to her was an armoured knight, and when he spoke, she realised it was Carson.

“Oh Christ, Quinn!” he yelled, leaning over to her. “Thank God you’re here! The knight-sergeants have been doing their best to lead the attack, but without you—”

They both ducked instinctively as an explosion sent brick dust and shards of wood up in their faces. When Quinn looked up again, she saw something that made her blood run cold. Vivian Cooper lay flat on her back, her abandoned power armour cracked open next to her. There was a single hole through the glass eyepiece of the helmet, and the left side of her face was a tattered mess. She stared up blankly at the ceiling, while a figure in scribe robes bent over her, furiously giving her CPR.

Stephen Cooper.

He must know she was dead. Must _know_ there was no way to bring her back. Even if he could keep her blood pumping until the end of the battle, the back of her head had been blown out. And yet the sweat dripped down his face, his eyes wild, as he fought to save his long gone wife.

Then it all happened so fast. One moment, Stephen was working on her chest, Vivian’s body jerking with his frantic motions, and then a Railroad agent seemed to emerge from nowhere. She pointed the shotgun at him, and Stephen stared down the barrel of the gun for a few seconds, before diverting his attention back to Vivian. The agent pulled the trigger, and Stephen’s blood streaked along the floor and up a nearby pew.

Rachel’s scream could be heard over the roar of battle. She charged like a bull, slashing out so violently with her knife that she nearly took the head off the offending woman. But as the enemy crashed to the ground, Rachel whirled around, and Quinn saw only hatred in those blazing eyes. Every slight, every upset, every event that had battered and beaten Rachel Marguerie into the ground over the last ten years surfaced with the force of a volcano, and suddenly Quinn was unsure if any of them would be walking out alive.

But Rachel leapt forward, her knives gleaming in the glow of the firefight, and then she was gone, melding with her surroundings like the predator life had forged her into. But despite being invisible, the sudden shrieks and sprays of blood tracked Rachel’s path across the room as she carved her mark in the necks of her prey.

Old, young. Male, female. Synth, human. It didn’t matter, so long as they were Railroad. The knight-sergeant tore through each and every one of them.

Finally, Quinn found her bearings.

“Knights, forward!” she bellowed, deciding that was the action Danse would take. And to her surprise, they obeyed. “Watch out for Marguerie!”

A difficult order, given they couldn’t see her, and yet somehow it was managed. When the blood spurted from the throat of an agent, the soldiers changed targets to one on the other side of the room, following Quinn’s instructions.

She watched as familiar faces were mowed down under the newly concentrated fire, and felt her chest go tight.

_Us or them._

Murder or betrayal.

_God, please just let this end._

The last was a young man, no older than eighteen, cowering behind a pew, clutching a battered old pistol. But before Quinn could give the order to ceasefire—maybe even let the boy go—a now visible Rachel strode over, grabbed him by the hair, and threw him out of his hiding place. He pushed himself across the floor, begging for mercy.

“Rachel! Quinn yelled, but Rachel ignored her.

The knight-sergeant swooped down upon him, his horrible, shrieking cries silenced in three sharp movements of her hand. She let his body drop carelessly to the floor, her shoulders rising and falling as she panted on the spot.

“Knight-Sergeant!”

To her shock, Rachel stood to attention.

“Ma’am!”

Quinn blinked at her but quickly recovered. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Emotion got the better of me, ma’am!” Rachel responded at once. “I acted out of turn. I apologise.”

Now Quinn was truly thrown. What on earth…? But she couldn’t see a trace of mockery or sarcasm on Rachel’s face. She was really bending to Quinn’s will.

“If I give an order to stop, you damn well stop. Do it again, and you can leave us to continue the battle without you,” Quinn spat, gesturing to Rachel’s victim. “Their _leaders_ are our targets. We’re soldiers, not fucking savages. So start acting like it!”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the gathering, and Rachel glanced down at the boy, a trace of regret flickering through her features. But then it was gone, and she nodded. “Understood, ma’am.”

Quinn turned to the crowd, who were watching her with silent awe. Bantios was at the front, trembling where he stood.

“Bantios,” she said, and he jumped violently.

“Ma’am!”

“Assemble what scribes we have left and send up a vertibird signal. We’re not finished, but I’ll be damned if I let any more of my troops die.” She pulled out the flare gun and tossed it to him. “Get to it!”

“Yes, ma’am!” he squeaked, and he and the other scribes scurried away, flocking to the wounded on the floor.

“We don’t have much time,” Quinn said, turning to the rest of her team. “The Railroad are quick and wily. If we give them a moment to regroup, they’ll scatter and we’ll have lost our chance. I have no intention of letting them destroy the Prydwen.”

Every syllable felt like a betrayal. She was killing them by utterance alone. But Quinn thought of Josh on the ship, safe and unharmed, not yet knowing what had happened. Not yet knowing his parents were dead.

_An orphan. I’ve made an orphan._

Well, she wouldn’t make that same mistake twice. No one was going to threaten her squires, even if the cost was her soul.

“Marguerie,” Quinn said, and she saw the knight-sergeant tense. “Usual tactics. Get in there, take out any dangerous targets or traps, and then lay low until we arrive. If you get into trouble, signal with your pistol and we’ll come running, okay?”

Rachel nodded.

“You have five minutes. Go.”

She went.

“The rest of you who are fit to fight, patch up now. If not, stay behind and guard the scribes. I won’t have another Stephen Cooper on my hands.”

All heads turned towards the crumpled form of the scribe, bowed over his wife. Even in death, they were together.

Quinn let her eyes run over the rest of the scene, the blank faces of the Brotherhood staring up at her. One person in particular stood out. Initiate Núñez’ glassy gaze met her own, and she saw he wore the new uniform of a Brotherhood knight. It looked to be the cleanest thing in the room, marred only by the guts that poked through the fabric at his midriff, his bloody hand limply covering his final wound.

_“My mamí...was persistent.”_

His mother. God, she’d have to tell his _mother._

Was this the guilt Danse had felt when his soldiers had fallen? This doubt, this fear that another might be lost under her command? That her incompetence, her actions—or lack thereof—had caused so many lives to be snuffed out?

However, as a scribe walked past the harrowing bodies of the Coopers, Stephen suddenly coughed.

It was like a spark had been lit in a dark room, and at once people were clamouring to assist. Rank and duty were forgotten in an instant. Someone was alive. One of their own had _survived._

But the five minutes were almost up. And they still had a job to do.

“Hold your positions!” Quinn barked, and everyone froze. She took off her helmet and threw the gathering a scathing glare. “Are you forgetting where we are? What we need to accomplish?”

Some of the younger ones scowled, but the more experienced soldiers looked shamefaced, and quickly dragged the others into line.

Quinn put her helmet back on, hating herself even more. She knew they only wanted to help to help the scribes with the wounded. But Rachel was still down there alone, and Quinn needed every last soldier she had. It was time to finish this.

* * *

Yells of _‘Ad victoriam!’_ punctuated the air as they pushed ahead, navigating their way through the crumbling tunnels while bullets flew at them. Her first trip here came to mind, following the Freedom Road, figuring out the password—though it hadn’t been hard. The whole setup had stunk of Deacon, frankly—to the standoff in the main entrance.

Deacon had vouched for her. He’d _vouched_ for her. How did he feel now, she wondered? Stupid, for giving her the access she’d so sorely needed? Or maybe just tired. Quinn had the feeling he’d seen it all before, traitors and purges coming and going as predictably as the movements of the sun. Maybe that’s why the man couldn’t string a single true sentence together. Truth created vulnerability. Lies were a barrier. And yet her truths to Maxson kept her safe in his good graces, while her lies about Danse wore heavy on her heart.

But Danse was alive. No truth had given so sweet a gift.

The sealed entrance to the inner sanctum had been blasted away, possibly Rachel’s work. As she stepped over bodies marked by the knight-sergeant’s blades, she saw Desdemona had already been dealt with, splayed across the planning table. Glory, too, was gone, in a heap next to her cold minigun. It seemed Rachel had worked quickly. Quinn expected nothing less.

The rest of the Railroad fell in minutes, the Brotherhood annihilating them. Quinn didn’t fire a single shot. She hadn’t all night. Directing was one thing, but to do it herself...no. She couldn’t bring herself to step over that last line.

_I’m a fucking hypocrite._

The rooms were scouted, the targets counted and ticked off accordingly. The remaining soldiers carried away their own wounded and dead, Rachel at the forefront of the parade. She looked drained, defeated. Rachel had lost a lot tonight. As Quinn stared at the dead Railroad agents, she couldn’t help but think they all had.

“You okay?” Carson said, taking off his helmet.

Quinn did the same and shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Don’t lie, Quinn. I’ve known you far too long for it.”

She didn’t reply immediately, walking past Desdemona’s body and setting her helmet down on a nearby desk. In the corner, P.A.M. watched silently. It had been quiet since they had first broken in, refusing to obey any directives. Her orders were to reprogramme the robot or destroy it, but Quinn didn’t want to do either. She had enough blood on her hands.

But then again, it was like Danse had said. Maxson never liked to do his own dirty work. And now, finally, standing in the graveyard of the Railroad HQ, Quinn understood what he had meant. The dirty work was the paladin’s job.

“I’m tired, Carson,” Quinn said, avoiding his eye. “I’m tired of...of this. This shit isn’t what I signed up for. I’ve just become a murderer.”

“You’ve just protected every single life on the Prydwen,” Carson said fiercely, storming over to her. “All our staff, all our soldiers. All the children.” He clamped his hand on her shoulder and gave her a little shake. “You’ve saved them all. We wouldn’t have pulled this off without you. And that’s what happens in war. We all knew that, coming into this job. We knew the risks. Knew what we might have to do.”

“Did we?” Quinn replied, shrugging. “Did we _really_ know what we were getting ourselves into?”

“I don’t know,” Carson admitted, but he fixed her with an intense look. “But because of that, I met you. I met Tom. And for the first time in my life, I have a home that accepts me for who I am. I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Quinn opened her mouth—to say what, she wasn’t entirely sure. But at that precise moment, a small movement caught her eye, and she turned her head to one of the back rooms.

Panic clutched at her throat. She had hoped to avoid such a confrontation, to be spared his concealed and yet somehow damning stare. But it could be no one else but _him._

“Go help the others,” Quinn said, and Carson blinked at her.

“What?”

“You heard me. Go help the others.”

“I don’t—”

_“Now!”_

The word rang through the room, and Carson flinched, before nodding. He left without argument. Once she was sure he was gone, Quinn struggled out of her power armour and picked up her combat rifle again. If he was here, then she had to talk to him. He might not want to listen, but she needed to explain, as did he. Quinn wanted the truth for once, and she was going to fight for it.

“Deacon!” she called out, moving toward his hiding space. “It’s me, Quinn! If you don’t shoot, neither will I. It’s as simple as that!”

No response.

Quinn edged forward, her heart in her mouth. If he was quick, he could kill her in a second. If she was quick, she’d have another death on her hands. There was no good way for this to play out, but her hunger for answers in the midst of all this chaos dampened her fear of him. She was getting her explanation, damn it.

When she rounded the corner, she came face to face with the barrel of a gun. Deacon was standing on the other side of the room, his pistol drawn and pointed directly at her head. An old desk was the only thing between them. His face was calm—calmer than she felt—and his stance was still. The tip of her rifle trembled as she stared him down, adrenaline and shame and anger rolling through, threatening to sweep her away.

“Deacon,” she said, licking her lips nervously.

Deacon did not reply, his expression perfectly blank.

All at once, her despair consumed her. Whatever the reason, whatever the price, she had helped with the destruction of the Railroad for something that might not be true.

“I’m sorry, Deacon. God, I’m so sorry, but…” Quinn bit her lip, trying not to cry. “Maxson sent the Brotherhood ahead of me. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t, and I just…they found your plans to blow up the Prydwen, saw you steal the uniforms, and they thought you were actually going to…”

Her voice trailed off as she realised Deacon’s face hadn’t moved a muscle. No shock. No outrage. Nothing. And she was hit with a sudden memory from Sanctuary.

_“Quinn.” He was whispering now as he leaned towards her. “You know as well as I do that the Brotherhood hates synth sympathisers as much as synths. If you...” Deacon paused, and this time she could clearly see the frown written across his entire face. He was considering something. Considering her. After a long silence, he shook his head and straightened up. “So long as you don’t lose yourself to this shit, the offer to join us will still stand.”_

Quinn gaped at him. “It’s true, isn’t it? You knew. You _knew_ they were going to do it and you tried to warn me.”

If Deacon felt ashamed by this knowledge, he didn’t show it. He stayed silent, his gun pointed steady. As this piece of truth sunk in, outrage exploded within her.

“There are children on that ship!” Quinn hissed, unable to contain her disgust. “And don’t feed me your lies about not knowing they were there! You’re too good of a spy for that!”

Deacon said nothing.

“Goddamn it, Deacon!” She could feel herself shaking. “I trusted you! I trusted you to do the right thing! Killing kids? What the _fuck?_ Does a person’s life only matter to you if they’re a synth?”

Deacon flinched, and for a second, his cheek twitched. Then eventually he said, “I still don’t get why you stuck with the Brotherhood.”

“Because I have to play nice to keep the ones I love,” Quinn shot back, feeling her eyes stinging again. She never wanted this. She didn’t want to be here. But her Brotherhood friends...Danse… “I don’t have a higher cause, Deacon. I just want to protect what little I have left.”

“I told you,” he said slowly, an odd smile spreading onto his lips. “By the time they crossed the line, it would be too late for you to leave. Paladin Danse—”

“Don’t,” Quinn said sharply. “Don’t play that game. You never know who is listening.”

“Usually me.” His strange, forced smile was cutting into her. “But you’re trapped now, Quinn. Whatever you do, for whatever reason, Maxson _owns_ you.”

For a second, she agreed with him, the thought a dagger in her chest. Fear had brought her here.

And yet it wasn’t fear of Maxson or fear of what the Brotherhood might do if she didn’t obey. Maxson must know by now that he held little sway over her. When he told her what had to be done, he hadn’t yelled or threatened her. He gave only facts and then left the decision up to Quinn.

It had been Carson and Rachel and all the others that had put her in this spot. She was their leader. Their paladin. Their _friend._

“You’re wrong,” she snapped, her grip tightening on her gun. “I’m not here through coercion. I’m here because I care about them. They don’t deserve to die.”

“And we do?”

“None of you do!” Whatever happened, he needed to know this. Quinn didn’t want him dead. “I would give anything not to be in this position now, Deacon. But I’m not seeing another option.”

Was that a flicker of surprise in his face? It seemed his sunglasses couldn’t hide everything. But then he shrugged and said, “If you say so.”

“ _Children!_ ” she repeated, unable to think of anything better. “How could you throw their lives away like that? How could you expect me to stand by, after what happened with Shaun?” Quinn shook her head. “Brotherhood or not, I would have done everything in my power to make sure you failed.”

“I know,” he said simply.

This caught her off guard, but she still had one last question. The biggest question of all.

“What kind of man are you, Deacon?” Her hands were shaking badly now. “Child killer? Or did you just not give enough of a _shit_ to check properly?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

They stared at each other for an age, the tension in the air so sharp it could have cut through steel. She could see herself reflected in his sunglasses, her breathing quick and restless, on the verge of cracking. Despite her posturing, a part of her had already guessed he would give her nothing but more confusion.

The real truth dawned on her.

“I can’t kill you.” Quinn slowly lowered her gun.

Deacon turned his head slightly towards the door, looking at something behind her, but Quinn didn’t dare turn away. After a long pause, he lowered his weapon too. Relieved, she shook her head. “Find a way out of here. Before my team comes back for me.”

Deacon adjusted his glasses and glanced around the room. “I think there’s still one exit left that I can wiggle out from. You know me.”

Quinn nodded, but as she turned her head to see where he was looking, he spoke again.

“Trusting me has always been a bad idea.”

“Wha—?”

She whipped around in time to see Deacon raise his gun and open fire. He moved quickly—too quickly—and the rounds went wild, hitting her in the gut instead of her chest. Pain flooded through her as Quinn fell to the floor. She tasted metal.

_“No!”_

Carson burst in, and Quinn watched with horror as Deacon went down behind the desk in a spray of blood and bullets. She hadn’t realised Carson had been nearby at all, but it didn’t matter. Deacon was _hurt._

“Stop, stop!” Quinn screamed, dragging herself across the floor, barely aware of the blood that was now pouring out of her wounds. “Deacon!”

Hands tried to pull her back—firm hands, _familiar_ hands—but Quinn wrenched herself free, leaving Carson to sprint out of the room, yelling Rachel’s name.

She reached Deacon, still calling for him, to find him splayed out on the floor, his white shirt stained with red, his glasses knocked halfway down his face. A horrible rasping wheeze was coming from his blood-tinged lips, and he stared up at the ceiling, twitching.

Quinn had never seen Deacon’s eyes before.

They were pale blue with a hint of grey, the same colour as a sunny wasteland sky. Framed by kind creases. Laced with agony. To see every line and mark around them felt...wrong.

Whimpering with pain, Quinn pulled herself towards him and sat up, drawing Deacon into her lap. He didn't fight her, didn’t even seem to register her. Her bloodied fingers hooked around his glasses, and she tugged them back into place, returning his shield. His eyes were not for her to behold. She was unworthy. His killer. His betrayer.

“Deacon,” she whispered, ignoring the distant shouts and heavy, clanging footsteps of Brotherhood soldiers. “Deacon, I didn’t want this to happen. I’m sorry. God, I’m so _sorry.”_

“It’s alright,” Deacon mumbled, his lips turning up into their usual mischievous smirk. “You did what you had to.” He placed his hand over hers and gave her fingers a squeeze. “I forgive you.”

The tears began to fall from her eyes, pattering down onto his face. But she forced a painful smile. “A liar to the end, huh?”

Deacon laughed. Then the grin faltered. His grip on her hand slackened.

He was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work. Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title.
> 
> I am very aware that many of you wanted Deacon to live. However, I knew from almost the very beginning I would be doing a Brotherhood aligned story. I had always intended to kill Deacon.
> 
> That is precisely why so much time and effort has gone into building up all the Brotherhood members. Because without them, there is no reason for Quinn to stay. I know people disliked my focus and ‘drama’ on these characters, but it needed to happen.
> 
> And because this is a BoS story, I felt as an author it would be dishonest of me to make such a huge change of sparing Deacon purely because my readers wanted him to live. I decided to embrace his death rather than avoid it.
> 
> That being said, I feel it is a massive failing on the part of the game for how Deacon’s death actually happens. There is no real justification for killing the Railroad besides ‘well we hate synths so yeah.’
> 
> Especially since the Brotherhood are already tied up with fighting the Institute and the Railroad in-game doesn’t actually bother the Brotherhood, I found the entire mission to be ridiculous in its reasoning.
> 
> I was unsatisfied, and so I did some digging.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Q_2-ilusPo
> 
> This link here shows that the Railroad planned to attack the Brotherhood from the very beginning. Also, if you side with the Railroad and take down the Brotherhood, Deacon produces BoS uniforms immediately after they attack. Deacon was prepared with those uniforms. He would have had to steal them from somewhere.
> 
> I tried to do my best to give the Brotherhood more justification in their stupid attack, while sticking as close to canon as possible. I hope I achieved that.
> 
> Finally, my entire inspiration for this chapter came from one very short post on tumblr. I only seriously began to consider killing Deacon off when I saw this post, and asked for permission at the time, which I was given. The original author (mirelurksandwich) has since deactivated, so I can’t credit them properly, but they did say I could use it.
> 
> The post can be found here:
> 
> http://quinzelade.tumblr.com/post/137018647135/sole-holding-a-dying-deacon-and-apologizing-for
> 
> On a happier note...50 chapters! :D


	51. Lone Wanderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm saying my thank yous here, because sadly my chapter notes at the end are dedicated to addressing the absolute shitstorm I received over chapter 50.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning! And thank you to all of you who understand that this is just fanfiction, and have enough common sense not to send me shitty messages because of it.

_“Why wasn’t she wearing her fucking power armour?”_

Rough hands grab and pinch as her body drags through coarse earth. She trails on the edge of consciousness—

_“I don’t know! I don’t know!”_

—red smeared in the dust, her feet bouncing on uneven ground. Her breath is short, gasping. Bubbles form and pop on her lips as—

_“Shit. Shit! Quinn!”_

—pain. Dull needles. Sharp throbs. Black pressing on her skull and smothering her, the hidden man laughing—

_“Where are the damn vertibirds? You were supposed to signal them in!”_

—his last grin on his dying lips. Laughing, and she’s laughing with him, her rasping mirth crackling through her struggling lungs. Copper taste in her mouth, spilling down—

_“I did! They're not here yet, they're not—”_

_“Then fire another shot! Never mind, I’ll do it. Get back to the wounded, now!”_

—her chin. Whispers in her ear as yells and orders flit above her. Fingers tight on her arm, a hand supporting her head.

_“Don’t die, Quinn. Please.”_

Movement. Swaying and rocking as a distant roar of engines lifts her to the heavens, taking her from the world. She knows she won’t return, though the imprints of those tight fingers echo on her skin.

Fading.

_“I don’t know if we have the capacity, sir.”_

A river of sweet numb, haze lapping against her body as she is swept downstream. There are conversations in the thick air. They are unimportant.

_“...bunks are your new sickbay. Every scribe will be...”_

_“Thank you, sir. Just let me administer this, then…”_

All was still.

* * *

Quinn awoke.

A wheeze passed through her lips as she took a deep, shuddering breath. She felt her chest rise and fall, stabbing pains through her ribs and stomach, all sensation alien to her.

For a few minutes, Quinn listened to the sound of her own laboured breathing, her awareness increasing as she took in the gentle hum of the ship. The distant sounds of patrolling footsteps. A faint cry. But something was missing, and after a few minutes she realised the excited talk and laughter from the dorms and mess hall were absent.

Quinn tried to open her eyes. They were gummy, crusted...like she had been asleep for years. When she licked her lips, her mouth was dry and sticky, her tongue sandpaper.

Her surroundings floated in and out of focus, her body drifting down a bubbling stream, while the world stood still. Thoughts were muted, fleeting, and no matter how hard she grasped at them, they merely slipped away.

Eventually, she managed to turn her head to the side, feeling heavy. How could she be drifting while she was so weighed down? The world spun, and Quinn shut her eyes, fisting her fingers into the fabric beneath her as she clung to the edge of the world. When everything settled, she opened them again.

Details began to emerge.

It started as a trickle—she recognised screens and makeshift curtains hanging around the area. Then she noticed the beds. When she finally realised she must be in the dorm of the ship, the dam broke, and awareness cascaded down onto her.

Some beds were empty. Some occupied. Some patients were asleep, writhing in agony, or staring into space. The rest were unseen figures, faces covered by crumpled bedsheets. Their fights were finally over.

Harassed scribes flitted from bed to bed, messing with tubes or pinning people down while administering medicine. In the distance, a faint, muffled screaming echoed over the metal floors, while a shadow struggled behind a medical screen. Someone was at their legs, moving a flat object in long, sawing strokes.

Quinn turned her attention back to the scribes, nausea flickering in the pit of her stomach, until the groans of agony slowly grew quieter. When she looked back again, another sheet was being pulled over in place. A distant part of her brain was glad she could only see a scene of silhouettes.

Finally, Quinn let her gaze fall onto the centrepiece of the room. Maybe she had been avoiding him. Maybe she had known all along he would be there.

Stephen Cooper lay in a mass of tubes and bandages, staring blankly at the walkway above him. Pain was written across every inch of what could be seen of his face, the rest swathed in bandages. His breathing was rasping and hard, the revealed patches of skin pasty and sheened with sweat. If it wasn’t for the twitching of his limbs, Quinn would have thought he was already dead.

Footsteps sounded, and the curtain was drawn back, revealing Cade.

The man had never looked so haggard. He was sallow and shadowed, moving as though each step was his last. His clothes were covered in blood, fresh layering the old. Exhausted eyes with red-tinged whites roamed the sickbay, but Quinn saw that the sharpness of his gaze remained untouched.

“Stephen...” he said gently, leaning over his patient.

Stephen’s turned his alert eyes to the doctor. He gave a slow nod. Cade frowned, but returned the motion, and left as quickly as he’d arrived. But a few seconds later he was back, this time with company.

“He hasn’t got long left,” Cade said in a low voice. “He knows this. But he wanted to see you both before…”

Cade’s words were cut off by a low wail as Michelle Cooper entered, her hands clutching at her blotched and puffy face. She burst into tears.

Joshua Cooper followed. Silent. Sombre.

He glanced up at Michelle, and Quinn saw the disgust ripple through his boyish features. Then it was gone, and he was edging towards his father, a child again. His bottom lip trembled.

Stephen reached out, a small smile visible beneath the tattered remains of his face. The shotgun had done its work. But Josh seemed oblivious to this, taking Stephen’s shaking hand in both of his own and pressing it to his cheek.

“Josh,” Stephen murmured, turning his palm to his son.

Josh bit his lip, his brow furrowed with effort as he bowed his head, holding back his tears. “Dad...don’t go.”

Stephen didn’t reply to this, fear flickering across his expression as he watched the boy. But when Josh wiped his eyes, Stephen quickly forced a smile as his thumb traced the spattering of freckles on Josh’s skin. “I’m sorry...but you have Auntie Michelle to look after you, and...and…”

A sudden stricken horror filled his features, and his eyes darted towards Cade as he croaked, “Vivian…?”

Silence fell over the gathering as Cade’s already pale face became ghost-like. Vivian had obviously slipped the doctor’s mind.

“She’s fine, Dad.”

Every head in the room turned towards Josh, but he only had eyes for his father. He fixed a fake smile of his own in place, the boy beneath thoroughly broken.

Cade seized the lie. “She’s currently in surgery to have the bullets removed, but she’s fine, Stephen. She’s going to be fine. You saved her.”

“I saved her?” Stephen repeated quietly, and he began to cry as he held onto his son’s hand. Josh crept forward, and suddenly they were hugging, pain written across Stephen’s face as he clung harder to his child. “I saved her.. _.I saved her.”_

Feeling sick again, Quinn closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see anymore. And when the murmurs stopped, a few seconds of agonised silence reigned before Michelle’s shrill wail of grief took its place.

Josh remained silent.

* * *

Danse stared up at the ceiling, the quiet in the bunker stretching out endlessly. He had tinkered with his armour. He had rearranged the room five times, read the book of poems twice over, _finally_ finished fixing up that old pistol, and tinkered with his armour _again._

Nothing filled the hole she’d left behind.

He turned on his side, his arm reaching out to her side of the bed, fingers resting in the space where she would have been.

Quinn…

Danse sat up and slid out of bed, pacing about the room. Being cooped up in here for days on end was doing him no good. He needed the smell of fresh air through his helmet filter, see open sky and rolling hills and—

_Check up on Quinn and make sure she’s okay._

Danse froze. No. What a _stupid_ idea. He’d risk both of their lives by doing that, and while his was disposable, hers was not. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. And yet Quinn’s continued absence after several days was putting him on edge. Haylen had set up the terminal in the bunker to be able to send and receive encrypted messages from her. So he’d shot her a line, asking if she’d heard from Quinn.

No response.

That was fine. Maybe the terminal was broken, or Haylen was busy. Maybe the messages took a long time to go through. After all, they _were_ encrypted. Or maybe something had happened, and Haylen was delaying in telling him because—

_Stop it,_ he thought fiercely, shaking his head. _Enough already._

Danse was no stranger to long Brotherhood missions, where communication was sparse and secrecy key. And Quinn was perfectly capable of looking after herself. She’d saved his neck more times than he cared to count. All this was idiotic fussing. He’d grown too used to her by his side, too used to domesticity. Quinn was still a soldier—a _paladin._ The responsibilities she now carried were as familiar to him as his own name, and sometimes that meant long spells away from home.

Still, Danse missed her.

He glanced over at his power armour, making up his mind. He wouldn’t go near the Prydwen, and he’d be careful of patrols. He just needed to get out of this damn bunker for a while. It was driving him stir crazy.

Readjusting to his new suit again hadn’t taken that long. When he and Quinn had visited the Slog together, it had been difficult. By the time they’d set off back home, he wore it as well as his paladin armour. Danse clambered into it now with ease and picked up his helmet off the shelf, where he’d left it next to the pony Arlen Glass had given him.

Why Danse had kept the stupid thing, he didn’t know. The paint was peeling, the metal rusting, and he no use for toys whatsoever. But...it had been a gift. Keeping it felt right.

The caps Quinn had given away to Preston when they had made a brief visit to the Castle. Fund the Minutemen to protect the Commonwealth. The money was unworthy in their hands.

Danse put his helmet on and strode across the room, taking the elevator to the upper level. At once, the tension in his chest released, and he stared across the desolate landscape, never happier to see the wasteland.

He hummed a Bill Monroe song as he strolled in the first direction that took his fancy. Maybe he would go to the nearby hospital again and see if there were any stimpaks that he’d missed the last time he went scavenging with Quinn.

However, as Danse approached Medford Memorial, he heard a set of voices. Familiar voices, but not familiar enough that he could place names to them. Instinct told Danse at once that he needed to hide, and fast. Finding an old, crumbling building, he ducked down inside, peering around the door long enough to see a Brotherhood patrol walking in his direction.

_Damn it._

Fear—real fear—flooded through him, and he edged away from the door, praying they’d move on. He wouldn’t be recognised wearing his helmet, but they would know his voice. The fewer questions asked, the better. If they tried to find out his identity and he refused to answer, they might attack. He would be forced to fight back.

The thought of hurting his former brothers and sisters terrified him more than anything else. It was a level he did not want to go to, not when it could be avoided. Of course, he would kill them all in a heartbeat to keep Quinn safe. But Danse hoped it would never come to that.

“Over there, look,” said one of them—a knight, Danse suspected, by the crackling quality of their voice. He’d been around power armour far too long not to recognise the sound of someone talking through a helmet.

“Yeah, that’s the place,” said another—a woman, this time. “We’re bound to get what we need from there.”

“That attack on the Railroad did a number on us,” the knight said as they stopped outside the door Danse was crouched next to. “Don’t think we’d have pulled through at all if the paladin hadn’t shown up.”

“Maxson shouldn’t have sent us in without her,” the woman said, her tone sharp.

“He had to. Who knows how much time until those assholes blew up the ship?”

There had been a threat against the Prydwen? The very notion seemed impossible, and yet obviously it had been real enough for Elder Maxson to launch such a large scale attack. He’d spoken with Maxson and Kells before about the Railroad, back when...in the past. But there hadn’t been enough information on the group to deal with them accordingly. Clearly that had changed since his exile.

Still, Quinn had handled it, and spectacularly, by the sounds of it. Danse had never felt so proud.

“But look what happened!” the woman continued. “How many of our own died for that shitty mission, and for what? Even Quinn—”

She was cut off as the knight spoke over her. “You should use her title, not her name.”

“She ain’t here though, is she? Laid up on the ship instead with a stomach full of bullet holes because Maxson—”

Whatever Maxson had done, Danse didn’t hear. Terror rushed through him. Quinn was hurt?

It took everything in him to stop himself shoving aside the group in his way and making straight towards the Prydwen. Only the desire to hear more information on her condition held Danse in his hiding place.

The group bickered for some time, sending Danse’s nerves into a frenzy, before eventually they began to talk about Quinn again.

“Bantios,” said the woman. “You were there. You signalled for the vertibird. And you treated her afterwards. How’s she doing? A lost cause?”

Danse bit his lip hard to prevent the noise of horror welling in his throat from escaping. The panic was mounting now, familiar images pressing on his brain: an abandoned Rivet City, Quinn sprawled on the floor in Cutler’s place. It was happening again. _It was happening again._

“No,” said another man with a faint, trembling voice. “Knight-Captain Cade says she’s going to be fine. Just her recovery will be slow, with the lack of stimpaks we have right now.”

Danse let out a slow, quiet breath of relief. Not great news, but his racing heart calmed slightly. If Cade said she had a fighting chance, then he had nothing to worry about. And yet...

After another ten minutes, the patrol moved on, and Danse edged around the door, watching them head into the hospital. He wanted to go after them, to press every stimpak he had into their hands, or at least leave them by the door. But it was too risky. Instead, he crept out of his hiding place and then sprinted back towards the bunker.

He needed to speak to Haylen now; needed to know exactly what was going on. If the number of injured was that high, Maxson would have pulled scribes from every corner of the Commonwealth to assist. Danse didn’t know if Haylen could access his messages from the ship, but he had to try.

God, he had to _try._

* * *

“Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Quinn stared up at the retreating figure, her body numb as she watched him drag an old, tattered suitcase down the hall. The wheels kept catching in the rips in the carpet, holding him in place, keeping him in her world for a little while longer.

Her hands reached out, clutching at his crumpled, too big suit, the faded red tie loose around his neck. He was avoiding her eye, more focused on the suitcase than was necessary.

“Dad,” Quinn whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“Yeah, why won’t you look at her, Danny?” came a sharp voice down the corridor.

 Both father and daughter flinched, turning their gaze to the tiny bundle of wrath in the form of Quinn’s mother, standing in the doorway of the living room. Her blue eyes burned as she stared at Quinn’s father, her hands gripping tight on her hips.

“Ana,” mumbled her dad. “Not now. Not while Quinny is…”

“Oh, so you want to stay in her good graces, huh?” her mother hissed. “Lie even more? Or were you going to tell her that you’re a good-for-nothing cheat?”

It felt like a slap to the face. Quinn glanced from her mother, triumphant in her spite, to her father, so meek in this accusation it had to be true.

“Dad?” Quinn said, her bottom lip trembling.

“Quinny, I—”

No denial. It _was_ true.

“Get away from me!” Quinn spat, backing so sharply from him she tripped over her own feet and fell into her mother. At once, hands tried to comfort her, but Quinn shrugged them off, feeling nothing but hate towards the pair of them. It was their little game. And now she hurt.

Oh, she _hurt._

As she ran from the room and up the stairs, she heard her dad erupt into a violent rage, screaming at her mother while she gave her all back. But Quinn didn’t care. She put on her music. Blocked it out. Sang into her pillow until her throat hurt and her voice was gone and she could hear no more. She would not cry. Her pride said no.

But as the front door slammed and her father made his last exit down the mossy garden path, Quinn caught herself whispering to him once more.

“Dad...don’t go.”

* * *

Pain dragged Quinn from her sleep, deep and burning in her stomach. She groaned, squinting through the dark, and blinked until her vision cleared.

The bed where Stephen Cooper had lain had long since been vacated, others taking his place and leaving again with quick exchange. Those that could move around without risk of further injury didn't stay in Cade’s presence for long. But no matter how many people had occupied the bed since, it would always be Stephen’s to Quinn.

The bed was empty now, as were most of the bunks. The area was slowly being repurposed as the wounded were dealt with. She had seen the open dorm morph back into its old self between her bouts of unconsciousness, Cade’s face peering over hers before he injected her with another dose of medicine. The pain would fade, the memories would blur, and she’d slip into blissful nothing.

That was not happening now. Deacon’s face pushed to the forefront of her mind, his final grin etched into her vision. Even when she shut her eyes, he was there, the rest of the dead lurking just behind.

Danse had once told her he still saw the faces of his old team—that they haunted his waking and sleeping hours. Never resting. Never giving him peace. Now it seemed it was her turn.

The pain was getting worse. But far from wishing for it to stop, Quinn welcomed the distraction. It dragged her thoughts away from her crimes as her hand rested on her belly, a moan of agony escaping her lips.

“Do you want me to get Cade?”

Quinn jerked her head towards the sound of the voice, and found Rachel Marguerie sitting at the foot of her bed.

“The hell are you doing here?” Quinn mumbled, squinting at her.

“Keeping an eye on your shot ass,” Rachel replied, snapping shut a worn book in her hands. Quinn recognised it as the one that had nearly gone over the side of the Prydwen when Rachel had been grieving.

The knight-sergeant saw where Quinn was looking and tucked the book in her uniform out of sight.

“Cade requested my help.” She stretched out in her seat and yawned. “In his words, _‘Marguerie, you're the only other person scary enough to keep the paladin in her bed.’_ ” Rachel grinned. “He's taking a well needed nap. Don't think he's slept in the last three days.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Just over a week. We had so many wounded the stimpaks had to be rationed. Most of the serious injuries were treated so that they weren't life threatening, and then left to heal naturally. But the knights that have been fit to go out have been sent on extensive scavenging missions.”

“Why haven’t you gone?”

Rachel frowned. “I wanted to, but Kells ordered some of us to stay behind, in case any remnants decide to take a shot at the ship. But scribes are in the process of making new chems from scratch, which I’m helping with by carrying materials around the decks. The rest of the medicine gaps will be filled in when the patrols get back. Give it a day or two and you'll be on your feet again.”

“Is that why Stephen...?” Quinn paused, her throat tight. “Not enough medicine?”

Rachel said nothing for a moment, her face becoming blank. Then her eyes dropped to the floor as she said, “No. Cade...he…”

“Never mind,” Quinn said quickly.

Rachel looked up sharply. “I’m _fine.”_ She leaned back in her seat again, fixing Quinn with a fierce glare, and then continued, her tone flippant. “Cade told me the stimpaks were just prolonging the inevitable. And eventually Stephen decided he wanted to be taken off treatment. Save the medicine for someone else.”

“Cade was that blunt?” Quinn felt sick.

“Of course not.” Rachel leaned on the bed, shaking her head. “But Stephen is...was no idiot. Had been trained by Cade himself for field medicine. He had a feeling something wasn’t right.”

“He wanted to go?”

“He didn’t want to drag out the process for Josh.”

“How do you know all this?”

Rachel went distant again, scrunching Quinn’s bedsheets between her fingers absentmindedly. “I came to visit him. He...he asked me what he should do. And I…” Her lip quivered. “Oh God, Quinn.”

The knight-sergeant put her head in her hands, clutching at her hair. Quinn tried to sit up, to comfort her in some way, but the pain was so great she was forced to drop back onto the bed. Rachel didn’t notice.

Eventually, the knight-sergeant straightened up, staring at the medical screen surrounding the two of them. Quinn watched her uncertainly. Would this end in another violent meltdown?

“I lied, y’know?” Rachel said suddenly, still looking blankly ahead. “Cade didn’t order me here. I came of my own accord.”

Quinn blinked. Now _that_ she hadn’t expected. “Why?”

“I couldn’t save Viv,” Rachel said, as if she hadn’t heard Quinn’s question. “I couldn’t help Stephen.”

“But you still visited.”

“I did that for me,” the knight-sergeant replied, her voice flat and hollow. “I did it because I missed my chance with Viv.”

“Rachel…”

“I told him to die.”

The confession didn’t surprise Quinn. Neither did Rachel’s calmness.

“Stephen was a mess. Thought I...thought I was Viv. I’d tell him Viv was dead, and he’d start crying until his next dose, and forget all over again. I stopped bothering with the truth after the fifth time. Then eventually…”

There was a long silence.

“He asked me if I thought he was gonna make it.” Rachel closed her eyes. “I said no.”

Quinn could see it now. A dying man, so muddled he could barely think, and yet lucid enough to know something was wrong. Finding out he was on borrowed time. Knowing his suffering had no happy ending.

“Stephen asked for Cade,” the knight-sergeant continued, her eyes still shut. “I fetched him, and Stephen said he wanted his treatment to stop. Save it for other soldiers. Spare Josh an ordeal. Cade argued, but the decision was Stephen’s in the end.”

Another silence. It was a quiet that Quinn could not fill. Did not _want_ to fill. It was Rachel’s and Rachel’s alone.

“I did the right thing.”

A statement, not a question. And yet the knight-sergeant sounded anything but convinced.

Quinn thought of Stephen’s final moments. The agony. The fear. And yet despite all of it, he had been alert and ready through every second. Uninformed about Vivian, perhaps, but certainly aware. She told Rachel this, and the knight-sergeant’s eyes snapped open.

“You saw him die?”

Quinn nodded. “He was all there, Rach. He didn’t change his mind, even when the med-x wore off. He knew it was time to go.”

“What did he say about Viv?”

Josh’s face as he lied to his dying father slipped into her thoughts, and Quinn grimaced. “He thought he saved her. Cade told him she was in surgery, but well on her way to recovery.”

Rachel gave a small sigh of relief. “Well that’s a small fucking blessing, at least.”

The conversation died. This was beyond Quinn’s ability to comfort.

“I came here because…” Rachel rubbed at her face, suddenly looking tired. “Carson told me what happened in the tunnels. That you took down that guy for threatening the kids. The way you took down the rest of those assholes.”

Carson’s lie was not lost on Quinn. But for the first time since she had woken up, Quinn saw a genuine smile on Rachel’s face. The knight-sergeant was beaming at her.

“I know you don’t see synths the way I do, Quinn. That much was obvious when you punched me. But you came for us in the church anyway. All of us. It means a lot.”

Rachel hesitated.

“And not just because you saved us. But because of the other things you’ve done. You took down the _traitor_ even though you were…” She suddenly looked uncomfortable and quickly moved on. “And you think of the squires on this ship the way no other officer does. The way a _parent_ does. You continually put the Brotherhood and its people before yourself.”

Quinn didn’t know what to say. The knight-sergeant was still trying to struggle on, her pain raw and deep. And yet she was letting Quinn see it.

“I like a lot of people on the Prydwen,” Rachel said, fixing Quinn with a hard stare. “Hell, I’d even call some my friends. But I _respect_ you. You are everything Danse could have been. _Should_ have been.”

She paused, looking confused, and then shook her head. “Get some sleep.”

* * *

Quinn was moved in the middle of the night.

Cade stayed by her side, directing the scribes in a quiet—but firm—tone as they wheeled the gurney through the empty corridors. The few patrols that were there respectfully averted their eyes.

Only when they made it to the peace of Cade’s office and the scribes were dismissed, did Quinn speak.

“Where’s Kapraski?”

Cade jumped, dropping the needle of med-x he had been preparing, and then cursing as it rolled under his desk.

“Sorry we woke you, ma’am,” he said, getting to his knees and rooting around for the wayward medicine. “But I felt you might appreciate fewer stares.”

“Thank you,” she said as Cade located the med-x and got to his feet.

He smiled at her and sat down behind his desk. “As for Kapraski, I feel his recovery is enough that he doesn’t need to be wedged in my sickbay 24/7 anymore. He seemed happy with the decision.”

It was then Quinn noticed his smile was forced, plastered over a foundation that was cracked and on the verge of crumbling.

Cade stretched in his chair and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “But enough about my other patients. How are you feeling?”

“Numb,” Quinn replied, without hesitation.

Cade frowned at the med-x in his hand and then looked at her. “Physically?”

“Emotionally.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind. After all the shit that happened, this feels like I’ve been let off the hook.”

Cade’s frown deepened. “You went on that mission and followed your orders without question, despite the heavy losses. That can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.”

“And it will have left its mark.”

Quinn didn’t reply. She saw what Cade was getting at, but she didn’t want to entertain the notion. All he had to do was let her live in a blissful state of blank. Was that too much to ask?

“Why did you let Stephen Cooper go on as long as he did?” she said, wanting to drive the current topic out of his mind. As soon as she said it, however, she regretted bringing it up. Cade’s face went pale. His eyes fell to a stack of reports on his desk, though he obviously wasn’t reading them.

“Sorry,” Quinn said, feeling a faint stab of guilt. “You don’t need to answer that.”

“No, it’s fine,” Cade replied, though he still wasn’t looking at her. “As a doctor, I should know when to let a patient go. And despite every indication that said otherwise, I kept him here. Wasted valuable resources. Put the man and his family through pain and false hope.”

Cade closed his eyes, resting his head in his hand.

“I just wanted _someone_ to survive that day.”

“How many people have you saved this week?” Quinn asked.

Cade glanced up at her. “What?”

“How many of our wounded would have died without you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Most of them, but—”

“So more survived than died?”

Cade rose to his feet, scowling. “That’s not the point, Quinn. I let myself get selfish.”

Quinn sat up, ignoring the nauseating wave of agony that washed over her, and glared back. “You let a little boy say goodbye to his father. You let Stephen Cooper go out on his own terms. I think that’s all any of us can ask for these days.”

Cade blinked at her. For a minute, no words passed between them. Then he nodded. “Ma’am, you need to lie back down. Your stitches.”

Quinn did as she was told, and the doctor strode over to her, lifting up her shirt and checking over her wounds with a careful hand. Then he fetched the syringe of med-x and injected her with it.

“This discussion isn’t over, by the way,” he said, as the chems took hold. “We will have a proper talk about what happened when you’re be...”

His words faded out, the sweet nothing returning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Normally I reserve this section for happy things and thank yous, but last week there were a few of you who were deeply unhappy with my decision to kill off the Railroad. Enough to tell me I can’t write, they hate my main character, they aren’t going to read my story anymore, etc. Funnily enough, all of these people are blatant Railroad fans who show through their anger and word choices in their arguments that they think the RR can do no wrong.
> 
> Last year I would have ignored this or maybe taken it to heart to such an extent I would have rewritten chapter 50 to please the people I’d angered. But a year’s worth of dedicated writing has changed my outlook on the author-reader relationship for the better.
> 
> In short, eat my entire ass.
> 
> I spend hours daily, working my writing, research, editing, and planning around a full time, 40 hours a week job. On my days off work, I spend the entire day working on my fic. I have written to the point of exhaustion. I have written to the point of needing hand splints. I write for free and because I enjoy it.
> 
> I am always open to criticism of the quality of my writing. However, for people to come to my fic knowing full well it’s a Brotherhood story and then threaten me with stopping reading because you don’t like the outcome I chose...because I killed your favourite faction...in a Brotherhood playthrough...
> 
> Go.
> 
> Seriously. If you don’t like Brotherhood stories, then go. I appreciate every reader I have, but I am not your bitch. And I certainly will not sit by and ignore the level of shit I have received over a goddamn fanfic chapter. This is a Brotherhood story. My story. I am not changing it for you, and you are not entitled to the direction I take it. If you want a story where the Railroad survive, type ‘Railroad’ or ‘Minutemen’ or ‘Deacon’ into the searchbar of the Fallout 4 section and hit enter.
> 
> There are plenty of fics out there for you.
> 
> But not this one.
> 
> This is a Brotherhood story, but it's not pro-Brotherhood. In fact, I think it’s highly critical of the Brotherhood. But still, the focus is on them.
> 
> What the hell else could you have been expecting to happen? How much clearer could I have possibly made it? I have dedicated thirty chapters to building up relationships between Quinn and the Brotherhood. On the flipside, she barely knows the Railroad. Deacon has only appeared three times in total in this entire fic.
> 
> Did you think it was for shits and giggles?
> 
> I wanted to bring out the human side of everyone involved. Quinn is a highly flawed individual. She is selfish and shortsighted and that’s the entire POINT. But I don’t believe her choice was immoral. That decision has no right answer. It’s supposed to be a shitty choice.
> 
> The Brotherhood are not good people. They are racist, bigoted bullies.
> 
> The Railroad are not good people. They kill children and only care about the lives of synths.
> 
> And the best part of this? Deacon agrees with this assessment. He says he wishes Des would help humans too. It is also implied by Deacon that the Railroad use some very nasty, low-level tactics to get their job done. If you ever bother to do the research that I have into his character, when he drops in affinity and has a talk with you, he tells you that you’re normally really noble, and that you’ve been acting out of character lately. That you are stooping to the level of the Railroad...to the level of Deacon.
> 
> Shock!!
> 
> Finally, I’ve responded privately to most messages/reviews, but one individual decided to leave a guest review that I couldn’t even respond to and have a conversation about it. I had a full, very thorough response for that person. But then I realised, why bother? They didn’t give me that courtesy. So I’ll be brief in my reply to their one-sided irritation.
> 
> My dearest guest reviewer. Everything I’ve written. Everything I spent hours carefully constructing.
> 
> You missed the entire fucking point.
> 
> I have nothing more to add.
> 
> I have no intention of continuing this debate further. I don't intend to address it again. If you're unhappy with my interpretation of the Brotherhood and the Railroad, then you know the answer. No one is forcing you to stay.
> 
> For the rest of you who weren’t so damn rude to me over a piece of fanfiction, thank you. I’m sorry I made some of you cry, but thank you for not yelling at me or ripping me down because I killed a character you like.
> 
> You people are why I write.
> 
> Thank you. :)


	52. Grief

The stimpaks worked as Marguerie promised.

Quinn hobbled down the upper corridors of the Prydwen, before settling on the edge of a walkway, the pain in her stomach ever-present. It was healed, but the tenderness remained. Not that Maxson cared—he had requested her to his office almost immediately, apparently unconcerned with the ladder she’d had to climb to get to him.

Oh, he apologised. He apologised for many things, both in words and in the way he looked at her, but Quinn didn’t believe him. She couldn’t, when the result remained the same: the people of the Railroad were dead. Quinn had murdered them.

And Josh. Josh couldn’t—

“Thought I’d find you here,” said a gentle voice.

Quinn glanced up to see Carson standing next to her, wearing a soft smile.

“Mind if I join you?”

She motioned vaguely to the spot on the floor next to her, and Carson took a seat. Typical of him to know she’d be hiding at the top of the ship. He stretched out, his legs flat on the floor, and turned to her. “So, how you do—?”

“Don’t,” Quinn said sharply, picking at a loose piece of fabric in the cuff of her sleeve. “You know I’m doing shit. So just...don’t.”

“Alright,” Carson said, his tone a little stiffer. He scratched his head and shrugged. “I’ll say it straight, then. I told everyone you just went in and shot that guy dead, no real conversation involved. Dragged you away from his body so they couldn’t see you crying over him. I’ve protected you. Lied for you. So I think I deserve some goddamn answers.”

He was right. He did deserve answers. More than he could ever know. Her standoff with Deacon must have been really bothering him, to bring it up like this. Carson had never been so direct, even when she was being an ass.

Quinn told him everything. Every detail, every meeting, every talk, every laugh she’d had with the idiot with the sunglasses. She talked and talked for what felt like hours, until she had nothing left to give, and then still went on until the tale was complete.

When she’d finished, she was hollow. Nothing had changed. If anything, Quinn felt worse. She’d just relived the entire ordeal.

“And the shittiest thing,” Quinn said, staring at her knees, “is that I don’t even know if there was a threat after all. Deacon told me _nothing,_ gave me _nothing.”_

“He sounds like an asshole.”

“Can you blame him?” She shook her head. “I murdered all his friends. Betrayed him. And yet…”

Quinn buried her face in her hands. “God, Carson, was he a _child killer?_ Did he come onto the Prydwen to scout as well as get the uniforms? Would they have really gone ahead with their plans?” She looked up again, and saw Carson’s face was pale. Quinn fidgeted. “I just...even with all the lies, I thought I knew the man at least that much. Now I’m not so sure.”

Quinn leaned back against the walkway railing and gazed up at the ceiling. “But he didn’t deny it either. Maybe he really didn’t care what others thought. Or maybe he was just pretending. He always seemed to tell jokes a little _too_ much. Like he was hiding something deep.”

“I heard you tell him to go,” Carson said quietly.

Quinn nodded, unconcerned. If Carson disagreed with her choice, that was his problem. She would still do it again. “I couldn’t have killed him. There’s enough blood on my hands. But...I don’t think he wanted to live.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because he had every opportunity to leave. He could have ran, dealt with me later if he wanted...but he didn’t. He stayed. Made sure I was punished. Now he’s gone...and all I’m left with is questions.”

A short silence. Carson looked lost for words.

“You know what troubles me the most?” Quinn said suddenly. Carson glanced at her.

“What?”

“Did Maxson lie to me?”

Carson frowned, but didn’t say anything. Quinn took this as an invitation to continue.

“It just doesn’t add up. None of it. Killing kids, provoking the Brotherhood when it’s a much bigger entity, sending you guys first to such a dangerous battle. We’re in the middle of a damn war with the Institute. Was the threat so great that the Railroad had to be dealt with _now?_ Or were Kells and Maxson looking for an excuse— _any excuse_ —to stamp out ‘the synth menace’ at the cost of our own people?”

Carson took some time to answer, and when he did, his speech was slow and careful.

“If there’s one thing Elder Maxson is not known for, it’s lying.” He shifted in his spot on the floor, frowning. “Everyone says Paladin Danse was his mentor. If Maxson said there was a threat, I think he genuinely believed it was there. Whether it actually existed is another matter, but…”

Quinn saw what he was hinting at. Maxson wasn’t trying to make her work on manipulation and lies. After a few seconds, Quinn nodded. She agreed. Time and time again, the Elder had forgiven her for keeping secrets when she was upfront about them. Like Danse, he valued the truth.

A bitter irony the disgraced paladin would turn Maxson into a liar.

Quinn sighed, rubbing her forehead.

_What’s done is done. There are no answers for me._

She got to her feet and began to walk away, not wanting to spend another second in her friend’s company. She felt like an outcast on all fronts, too brutal to mix with the wastelanders, too soft to be Brotherhood. Who the hell would tolerate her now?

Carson stood up, catching her arm, and she immediately felt stupid for doubting. He had always been there for her. And he always would.

Carson met her eye. “For what it’s worth...thank you.”

Quinn smiled.

* * *

“Ma’am.”

Old eyes stared out from a childish face, sharp and knowing as he stood at attention. His uniform was crisp and spotless, like it had been obsessively cleaned for hours on end. Joshua Cooper looked determinedly past Quinn, engrossed in the wall of the corridor he guarded.

“Why are you on duty?” Quinn asked, her brow furrowing as she studied Josh.

“No time for rest in war, ma’am.” His mouth went thin as he clenched his jaw, his pale face set and ready. Ready for what, Quinn didn’t know, but the way he held himself left a sour taste in her mouth.

“Bullshit.”

The facade cracked as Josh’s eyes widened and flicked in her direction. He hurriedly looked away again, but the damage was done. She had him.

“Come with me.”

“But—”

“That’s an order, Squire Cooper.” If he was going to play the game of rank and duty, her victory was already decided. Quinn shuffled away, and then glanced back at him, glaring. _“Now.”_

Recognising defeat, Josh scurried after her, his head down, walking in silence. The culled crew watched as the pair made their journey through the ship, passing like ghosts. They were seen. They were not disturbed.

“In here.” Quinn opened the door and pointed inside.

By the time Josh realised where she had taken him, Quinn had already slammed the door behind them. His eyes widened as he scanned the room— _her_ room—with barely contained fascination. Then, like a light being turned off, the interest disappeared, and he returned to his dull self.

Quinn limped across to her bed and dropped heavily onto the mattress, biting back a cry of pain as she upset her tender stomach. But when she glanced up at the boy, he showed no signs of noticing, lost in his thoughts again.

“Josh.”

Josh jumped. “Ma’am?”

“Call me Quinn.”

He struggled with himself for a moment, and then eventually forced out, “Quinn?”

“Why are you on duty, Josh? And be honest, please.”

Would he answer? They looked at each other for some time, Josh’s expression flicking between fierce and uncertain. He fidgeted, and then shrugged. “Better than being at home.”

_At home._

The miserable bunk beside Michelle’s, surrounded by battered and sombre soldiers, empty spaces where his parents should have been. That was his home. Quinn tilted her head to the side, searching for meaning in his words, and God, she understood.

_“Better than being at home,”_ she said, cops asking her why she was alone in a playground at two in the morning.

_“Better than being at home,”_ she thought, sleeping with Mark because it meant a bed that wasn’t hers.

_“Better than being at home,”_ she slurred, when a dog walker had found her in a field, caked in her own vomit.

Home meant a crying mother and an absent father. Home meant reminders of a man who had needled her heart, a woman who had put spite before her daughter’s happiness. She hated them both. Home was not her home. And so she had avoided it at all costs.

Quinn leaned on the bed frame, shaking away her demons. She had forgiven her mom after a few years, but her dad...well. That was complicated.

“If you ever want to be away from everything, you’re more than welcome to come in here. I’ll make sure the officers are aware of it.” She massaged her stomach absent-mindedly, smiling at him. “I know that sometimes you just need space.”

She had half expected a thank you, or at the very least some acknowledgement of her offer. But Josh ignored it completely, looking anywhere but at her.

“Is it Michelle?” Quinn asked delicately.

Josh’s eyes narrowed, as if searching for some sort of trick. Then he deflated as he nodded. “She just won’t stop crying!” He balled his fists, going red in the face. “I’m _sick of it!”_

“She’s lost someone too, Josh.”

“So? I’m not crying!”

Quinn raised an eyebrow at him. “Why not?”

The question took him by surprise, and he stopped in front of her, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Then he shook his head. “Because I’m just not!”

“Josh, you need to cry. You need to grieve—”

“If you’d been there sooner, would they have lived?”

Quinn reeled, feeling like she’d been shot again. Suddenly she was back at the church. If she’d been there, if she’d not been so _selfish…_

“I don’t know.”

“You must—”

_“I don’t know,”_ she repeated, with such savagery Josh recoiled. “I don’t know if there was anything I could have done to save them.” She sat up straight and looked away. “I _tried,_ but it didn’t matter.”

Who was she talking about now? Brotherhood or Railroad? Faces were blurring together, Núñez’ blank gaze cutting her as sharp as any knife, Desdemona spread eagle on her planning table. Vivian, dead before Quinn had so much as walked through the door, and Deacon…

Kind, pale blue eyes.

_Nate lay on the living room floor, ignoring the blood that trickled from the cut in his head. He covered his face with the crook of his arm, though the thickness of his voice was impossible to miss._

_“Everywhere I look, I see Crofts,” he croaked, still shaking from the aftermath of his flashback. “When I’m asleep. When I’m awake. I’m back in that ruined city, and she’s just crumpled in the dirt. And...and I see what’s left of her face. Her blue eye piercing into me. Telling me to join her.”_

Quinn’s breathing quickened, and she wished she could cover the eyes burning inside her head with a damn pair of sunglasses. “They all died, and none of them deserved it and I just wasn’t _good_ enough to—”

Her babbling was cut off as Josh hugged her.

Quinn froze, glancing down at the boy, her arms limply by her side. Then he began to tremble, before finally looking up at her. Big fat tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed onto his squire’s uniform.

“Why did they have to go?” he asked. “Why did they leave me?”

Quinn pulled him close again, and the dam broke, Josh bawling into her shoulder. She held him as hard as he was holding her, and rocked him in her arms, whispering empty, soothing words. Something was awakening within her.

Was this what it was like to have a son?

The stark truth of everything she had missed with Shaun was plainer than ever. She couldn’t avoid the other awful fact: this was the Institute’s doing.

They hadn’t forced the Brotherhood to come to the Commonwealth, hadn’t made the Railroad begin their exodus of the synths, but the Institute was the catalyst. The spark that had started all of this bloodshed. And Shaun was their leader.

_“You’re just going to let him run amok?”_

Danse’s words echoed from Sanctuary, when she had revealed the fate of her lost son. Quinn had refused every suggestion of hurting Shaun, until eventually she realised there was nowhere else to run. If she couldn’t do it herself, then the Brotherhood would have to do it for her.

Only now, she was one of their officers. She had seen firsthand the chaos and death that occurred when a paladin— _their_ paladin—wasn’t present to guide them.

Vivian, Núñez, Stephen, and countless other soldiers.

Desdemona. Glory. Drummer Boy. Tinker Tom. Carrington.

Deacon.

Her unwillingness to act had caused this, had cost them their lives. If she had given her all sooner, the Railroad wouldn’t have needed to save synths anymore. They might have flown under the radar of the Brotherhood. Everyone would have lived.

And what of everything else the Institute had done? What about Danse?

The very thought of a world without him was unbearable, and yet at the same time, the torment he had been put through was unjust.

Quinn clung to a still sobbing Josh and felt her own grief overwhelm her. More than ever, she wanted Danse, needed him with her. And she would have him, whether Maxson liked it or not. The road ahead of her was going to difficult—the most difficult path she had ever taken. But first, Danse. Then the dark work could begin.

Her eyes drifted over to the nearby cabinet, where Danse’s holotape lurked. She had thrown it in there after she had shown it to Carson, hoping never to listen it again. Why she had kept the tape, she didn’t know, but now it seemed as if its purpose was revealed at last.

Quinn knew what she had to do.

* * *

“Sir, a word, if I may.”

Maxson turned from his usual spot at the window, a glass of spirits in hand. Shadows existed on his face where none had been before. Tired eyes searched her, the youthful gleam that betrayed his real age now absent. Josh Cooper had held a similar look when Quinn had spoken to him on the walkways. She studied Maxson, a strange pity for him in her chest.

_Old before his time. An Elder._

He waved the guards away. A courtesy to her. Quinn appreciated it.

“Speak, Paladin,” he said, finishing his drink and setting it carelessly on the side next to the countless bottles that had collected there.

Quinn wondered if this was the fate of all who joined. Serve until they were spent, vitality sucked away by the parasite that was _Brotherhood._ Only when every breath of their being was taken, were they released. Too late.

She could feel it in herself. What was once a reminder of days gone by now felt like the very foundations of her sanity. The cost had been high, and yet there was still more she could give. Willingly, too.

Oh yes. _Willingly._

But at least she’d joined by choice. For Maxson, there had never been a chance of escape.  Deacon had been right in that regard. They were both trapped, though their reasons were different. It didn’t matter. Slowly, she was finding her feet in this organisation, bending it to her desires. And damn it, they would listen.

“Requesting permission to leave the ship, sir.”

Play the game. Play the game.

Maxson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re injured, Paladin. To let you out now would be as good as suicide.”

“I won’t be travelling far.”

His eyes widened, first in shock, and then in anger. He understood what she was hinting at, and the outrage was written all over his face.

“You’re still—?” he began, but Quinn cut smoothly across him.

“You heard the rumours before he died, I imagine?”

The surprise returned at the sudden change in topic, and for a moment, Maxson looked confused. Then his expression shifted from the real thing to pretence. “Rumours?”

“Ignorance doesn’t fit you well, sir. You know what I’m referring to.”

“Yes...I heard them. There were some concerns amongst the other officers, but I had faith he wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

“He didn’t.”

“Good.”

An awkward pause.

“But those rumours were there for a reason. He understood me better than anyone else. Helped me in ways I can barely describe, let alone explain.”

Quinn placed her next card delicately. “I can’t stay stuck here, sir. There isn’t a person on this ship I can talk to. I want guidance from someone who went through what I did.”

“You think you two are the only ones to kill friends in the line of duty?” Maxson said sharply, and Quinn saw the tower of cards wobble. His scowl was deep as he continued, “Cade is more than adequate for you, without bringing outsiders into the equation.”

“Sir.” Quinn stepped forward, closer than she’d ever dared before. “I need him. Let me go.”

The careful glimpse of her hand, the charade that he had control of the situation. Let it appear that there was a choice whether she stayed— a shallow show of respect to his position. Maxson could likely see the lie.

He moved back, breaking the moment. Conflict was etched into every premature line in his face. Eventually, the indecisiveness melted away.

“You understand that if you’re caught with him, you’ll probably be executed?”

“I think we both know that if he’s seen—with or without me—I’m as good as dead.”

_And you too, Elder,_ she thought. Quinn didn’t voice this, though, and Maxson looked grateful for her glossing over the obvious.

“If you understand the risks—”

“I do.”

“And also that we intend to act on our next operation within a few weeks. I would like you to be there.”

_You will be there._ The unspoken order.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

Maxson nodded. “Then you may go. Dismissed, Paladin.”

“Thank you.” Quinn saluted him, perhaps the first genuine salute she’d ever given Maxson in her life, and he returned it, looking equally sincere. She turned to go, and made it halfway across the room, when Maxson spoke again.

“Is he well?”

Finally, he had caught her off guard. Quinn whirled on the spot to face him, blinking rapidly. Then she smiled. “Yes, sir. He is.”

* * *

Climbing into her power armour unaided was an impossible task. Every time she’d tried, pain streaked through her stomach, until her knees trembled and she’d fallen away, gasping. In the end, recruiting Carson for assistance became a necessity rather than an option.

“At least let me go with you,” Carson muttered, turning the valve with ease. The armour hissed and opened, and Quinn checked she had Danse’s holotape in her uniform before struggling to get inside. Eventually she allowed Carson lift her up until she was in the suit.

Even moving in the damn thing was agony, the strain of heavy metal weighing her limbs. It had never bothered her in the past, but then she hadn’t been compensating for several holes in her midriff before now.

“Quinn—” he began again.

“Leave it, Knight,” a harsh voice snapped, and both of them turned around to see Rachel Marguerie leaning against a nearby workstation, giving Carson a sharp glare.

“Rachel—”

“I said _leave it.”_ Her eyes lit up with a rare glimmer of authority, and Carson knew at once to back down. Even Quinn felt like she was under Rachel’s thumb.

“Ma’am,” Carson spat, stalking past Rachel, giving her the ugliest look he could muster. She laughed, and watched with a smirk as he stormed off, his skin dark scarlet.

When the sound of his aggravated stomps faded away, Rachel turned back to Quinn, mirth still clinging to the corners of her mouth.

“Is there anything you need assistance with, ma’am?” She straightened up to attention. “Or is this a solo endeavour?”

“Like I said to Carson, I’m off on my own for a bit,” Quinn replied. “I need some space from the ship.”

“I understand.” She frowned slightly. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Go ahead.”

Rachel grinned, but then it faltered as her expression became serious. “Don’t push yourself too hard. I don’t doubt you’ll be fine out there, but stay out of trouble, for the time being. Even the best can be slowed down by a wound...and we need you.”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I can ask, ma’am.”

Rachel didn’t follow as Quinn took her leave, hanging back in the workshop. But though she remained, Quinn could sense the knight-sergeant’s watching eyes on her. The attack on the Railroad had taken so much from Quinn, and yet she couldn’t help but feel she’d gained something significant, too.

Still, in the emptiness of the wasteland, the warmth of these spoils quickly disappeared, replaced by numbness. Was leaving the right thing after all? At the time, she had been so certain her strife came from the presence of soldiers, a reminder of the blank faces that had stared up at her from the ground. But they had also granted her familiarity, purpose. Out here, where her only company was memory, Quinn began to doubt.

The numb was seeping from her, leaving a splattered trail of grief across the landscape as she limped towards her destination. With every step closer, the pain increased, pressing on her head, demanding to be recognised. A ghost that ambled with her, whispering jokes in her ear and changing clothes the second she looked away.

The first time Deacon had done that, Quinn nearly shot him. One moment he’d been at her side, in his usual t-shirt and jeans, black hair gleaming in the sunlight, and then suddenly a bald farmer ran past her as a group of raiders attacked, screaming commentary about Proust. If it wasn’t for the fact that Quinn had spotted the sunglasses at the last second, she would have shot him straight in the back of the head.

_“Deacon!” she shrieked as the last raider fell dead. “What the fuck? Warn me next time, you idiot!”_

_Deacon’s face fell. “Damn, you saw through my disguise?”_

_“You sound like you want me to shoot you!”_

_“Well, can’t say it would be unexpected.”_

Quinn staggered to the side, her wounds suddenly _aching._ He’d never trusted her. Not really. She’d managed to win the confidence of every other friend, but not Deacon. Never Deacon. He had held her at arm’s length, continually giving her chances to make her way past his walls. Every time, she’d turned him down.

And the lies...God, she’d hated the lies. Once the courser chip was done with, Quinn had parted ways, glad to see the back of someone who considered manipulation a fun game. Or at least that’s what she’d thought at the time. Now it seemed like it was a necessary part of his work. Whether Deacon had actually enjoyed it, she couldn’t say.

But he’d seemed to like her company at least, even if Quinn had made it clear she wasn’t taking his offer. He’d followed her long after they’d separated. Approached her time and time again to try and persuade her to join his group, despite her affiliation with the Brotherhood. Deacon had no reason to reveal himself if all he was doing was gathering information. And yet he had been there at Sanctuary.

Why had he wanted her so much? Was it her connection to Shaun? Or something else?

_“I forgive you.”_

Quinn felt her stomach clench. That was the _real_ parting shot.

The bunker came into view, and a strange panic grew. It started slow at first, bubbling away, clawing at her guts until her breath quickened and her face grew hot, and then suddenly she _needed_ to be inside.

Quinn ran.

* * *

Danse paced around the room, checking the terminal every few seconds. How long had he been stuck in this loop? Barely eating, barely sleeping, caught between the computer and himself. He’d heard no reply from Haylen, no idea if she was avoiding him or if she couldn’t respond. But the suspense had dragged him to the edge of his limit.

So when the elevator rumbled to life and began moving down to his level, Danse didn’t notice at first. Only when it drew closer, the mechanical clunks and grinds of rusting machinery fanfaring its arrival, did Danse look up from the terminal.

He had time to run, time to hide. His weapon was only by the power armour stand. But Danse didn’t move, simply straightening up in his spot and waiting with baited breath. Let it be her. Please, let it be _her._

A looming set of power armour greeted him as the jaws of the elevator slid open. His eyes trailed blindly over it, until sense kicked in and he _saw._ A paladin.

But was it Quinn?

The figure stepped forward, and slowly, hesitantly, they left their armour.

Danse blinked. The woman who had emerged was not Quinn.

She _looked_ like Quinn, from her unkempt hair to her tanned skin. Even the scars were an exact match. But she held herself differently, and for one heart-stopping moment, Danse wondered if she was a replacement. Had the Institute gotten to her? And if so, where was the real Quinn?

A furious grief spiked within him. They’d done a good job in replicating her, but the look in those beautiful blue eyes were as foreign to him as—

No.

Danse stared harder, an awful truth dawning on him. He’d seen that same look in the mirror, not long after Cutler’s death. She was the real thing.

“Quinn?”

At the sound of her own name, something snapped.

“Help.”

Danse sprinted across the room, catching her as she stumbled towards him. All of his worry exploded out, threatening to engulf them both as he clung to her, never wanting to let go. Quinn grasped at his shoulders, her legs losing all capacity to support her, and Danse sank to the floor, holding her steady. She wept in his arms, utterly incoherent.

Whatever had happened, it could wait. He wasn’t ready to help her yet. He needed a few moments, just to feel her, to know she was here and it wasn’t a dream.

She was alive. She was _alive._

* * *

Another sleepless night.

Danse didn’t mind. Tiredness was an old friend, granting him reprieve from the terrors that came with slumber. This time he had an adequate excuse to avoid it.

Quinn was in no mood for rest either, barely able to look at him for the first hour, let alone speak. Eventually, though, she told him about the attack on the Railroad, filling in the gaps of the Brotherhood patrol’s version of the operation. And there were a _lot_ of gaps.

Vivian and Stephen, gone.

That stung more than Danse thought it would. He hadn’t spoken to them properly in years, cutting them off for a clean break when the inevitable arrived. That obviously hadn’t worked. All he felt was the pain of loss mingled with an addition of regret. His team members, and he had shunted them out of his life. And for what?

Danse couldn’t even be angry that she’d befriended members of the Railroad. Her time before the Brotherhood was none of his damn business, and the last thing Quinn needed right now was a lecture.

This _Deacon,_ though...

Danse felt a sharp hatred towards the man. How dare he shoot her?

“It’s one word against another,” Quinn whispered, her face pale as she sat on the bed, carried there by Danse. “Or it would have been, if Deacon had said _shit._ But I don’t know whether to believe it. Why not defend himself?”

“He had his chance,” Danse snarled. “More than one. More than I’d have given him.”

“But you weren’t his _friend—”_

“Neither were you,” Danse interrupted, shaking his head. “You feel this way because he never presented himself as a threat. He collected information, followed you, tried to sway you to their side despite your obvious Brotherhood leanings. What organisation would stay friendly to someone who was affiliated with their enemy?”

“Because I was sympathetic towards synths. I’ve never hidden that, and the Railroad knew it. _Deacon_ knew it.”

“He manipulated you,” Danse pressed on. “Relied on your uncertainty, hoping you would give them a heads up if the Brotherhood caught wind of their plans.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder, a fierce pride in his chest. “Unfortunately for him, you let him down.”

Quinn looked far from convinced. Danse wasn’t overly sure either, but he did know one thing: this _Deacon_ had never truly been on her side. At least not in Danse’s opinion. Whether Quinn thought differently was another matter. A liar of this magnitude couldn’t be trusted to have her best interests in heart, and he’d dragged her through Hell attempting to twist her to follow his little schemes.

Damn the man. He didn’t deserve Quinn’s grief.

“But—” Quinn tried again.

“If he’s as good as you say, he knew there was a chance you would be on that ship, and was more than likely aware children were present.” He fixed her with a serious look. “None of the others would do that to you. _I_ wouldn’t do that to you. You didn’t know him, Quinn, and he tried to play you for a fool.”

She bowed her head, looking lost, and Danse could tell she didn’t agree with him, set on blaming herself for Deacon’s actions. What choice did she have? He frowned, and then went for a different approach.

“If you could change your decision, would you?”

Her reply was without hesitation. “No.”

Danse smiled. “Then you did the right thing.”

“If I did the right thing, why does it hurt like this?”

“Sometimes the right thing doesn't always feel that way.”

Quinn scowled. “That sounds like bullshit.”

Danse shifted in his spot on the bed, leaning against the frame and pulling her close. “Well it's not. You care about people, even strangers. One of your finer qualities, in my opinion, and something extremely rare in the wasteland.”

Quinn said nothing for a few seconds, and then hugged Danse back before looking up at him. She was still filled with regret, but the dangerous emptiness in her eyes had departed, replaced by grim acceptance. Danse felt relief wash over him. There was still a long road ahead of Quinn, but the worst of it—the doubt—seemed to be gone for the time being.

“How do you deal with this?” Quinn muttered, snuggling against him.

“You help,” Danse replied without thinking. He paused, realising he must have sounded flippant. “Sorry.”

However, she looked slightly pleased. “That's why I left the Prydwen again. Cade wanted me to stay and recover, but I needed to be here. With you.”

Quinn pushed herself up and made a noise of pain. Danse quickly tried to stop her, but she brushed his hands aside and kissed him. He leaned back, letting her body rest on his, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

When they broke apart, Danse mumbled, “I'll look after you.”

She smiled. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title.
> 
> The opinions expressed about the Railroad are my characters' opinions only. Normally I feel this wouldn't need to be said, but after the recent bullshit I really can't be bothered with any more tantrums. I have enough on my plate right now with work.
> 
> In other news, I’ve had a shit week. That’s why this is late. But thank you very much for all the lovely comments I received. I read each and every one and they are massively appreciated.


	53. Baby Blues

_“I forgive you.”_

Soft kisses brought Quinn back into the realm of the living, the kind blue eyes fading from her vision. She met Danse's lips without hesitation, no words passing between them. She didn't need to tell him what was wrong, and he didn't need to ask. Danse already knew she visited the church in her dreams.

What he d _idn’t_ know was that she was planning to return to the ship. Quinn waited until his breathing grew heavy again, and then slipped from his arms, shivering in the cold of the bunker.

The course of stimpaks—Cade’s orders, which he had delivered to her at the sickbay with a disapproving scowl—had done their work. Her wounds twinged, but Quinn ignored them—she could move better than before and that was enough.

There was regret, of course. It had been a peaceful, _blissful_ two days with Danse. He’d helped her through the worst, reinforcing that it wasn’t her fault, that she’d done everything she could to prevent what had happened. Quinn almost believed him.

But her work couldn't be put off much longer. The battle with the Railroad proved negligence in this war had severe consequences. She wouldn't let it happen again.

Quinn padded across the room and pulled on her Brotherhood uniform, which she had dumped in the corner when she had arrived here. Danse had insisted on checking over her wounds personally, his usual embarrassment gone when faced with her injuries. Her hands crept over the puckered scars, and then she fastened up her jumpsuit, before taking out the holotape she had stashed away in her pocket.

Quinn turned it over, studying the damage from where Danse had thrown it against the hotel wall, and ran her finger over the scratched off label. She placed it on the desk next to the terminal, and then with slight hesitation, removed the string from her neck. Nate’s ring dangled from it, swaying heavily in her unsteady grip.

Quinn laid it on top of the tape and stared at it for a moment. Then she pulled her own ring off and placed it next to Nate’s, a lump in her throat. Finally, she produced a new chain from her pocket, looping it over her head and tucking it away beneath her uniform. If the worst happened, Danse would make sure Nate got the rings. Quinn knew he wouldn’t let her down.

“You’re going back, aren’t you?”

Quinn jumped and turned to see Danse sat up in the bed, watching her. There was a surge of guilt at his badly concealed expression of hurt. Her attempt to leave without telling him had been entirely selfish, to make it easier for her. Not for him.

How long had he been awake?

“I have to,” she replied, hoping he wouldn’t spot the tape while she was still here.

“I know.” He bowed his head. “As soon as you were made a paladin, I knew I wouldn’t be able to see this to the end with you.”

“People died, Danse,” Quinn said, staring at her feet. “If I’d only—”

He was at her side in an instant with a natural swiftness that always took her by surprise. Before she could continue, he had pressed her to his chest, and said with a fierce whisper, “Don't let yourself go to a place where you carry every death on your shoulders. It is _not_ your fault.”

The urge to stay with him in the bunker intensified, away from the responsibilities of the real world. Quinn pictured Deacon’s eyes until the feeling went. She stepped away from Danse and gave a small shrug. “I’ll be gone until the job is done. Once the Institute is dealt with...well. The Brotherhood might have to find a new paladin.”

If Danse disagreed with her suggestion of leaving the Brotherhood, he didn’t voice it. Instead, he held himself like a man defeated.

“I know you think I should stay with them,” Quinn said, biting her lip. She desperately wanted to avoid another argument. “But—”

“I don’t care about that,” he interrupted, fixing her with a piercing look.

Quinn’s mouth fell open in shock.

His grip on her arms tightened, his mouth twisting to the side as he fought some sort of internal battle. After a few silent seconds, he forced out, “Please come back.”

A cold shiver ran up Quinn’s spine. _‘I will’_ was on the tip of her tongue, an easy comfort for him. But the days of promising the impossible were behind her, and the lie would do him no good. Not when he found the tape.

“I'll try.”

Danse looked unhappy with her answer, but he nodded, his jaw clenched. Quinn touched his face; she could feel each tense muscle, fighting to give him composure. Even as she drew him towards her, his every movement was strained.

“I didn’t go through all of this bullshit to leave you behind at the last second,” Quinn mumbled. She kissed him. “I will fight to come back. That I can promise you.”

“I believe it.” He tried to smile, but it faltered and sank beneath his misery. Then without warning he pulled her into another hug. This time, neither of them tried to let go.

* * *

“Back so soon?”

Maxson didn’t bother to hide his surprise this time. He stared at her, the usual glare softened by his raised eyebrows.

Quinn remained at attention, fixing him with her sharpest look, until eventually he shifted on the spot and regained his usual forceful demeanour. She waited for a second and then said, “I told you I’d return.”

“What you say and what you do are two entirely different things. You have a habit of omission until it suits you.”

“And yet you let me go anyway.”

“I did.”

Quinn blinked, and for the briefest of moments she could have sworn she saw a smirk lurking beneath Maxson’s beard. Then it was gone, and his face was hard again.

“You’re to report to Cade for a full physical examination. I want to make sure you’re in peak condition before the next stage of our plan.” He paused. “We’ve lost enough people already.”

An odd feeling swept over her. Did he mean Danse, or all the soldiers he’d sent to die at the church?

The assessment was unfair, but her bitterness towards his orders was ever-present. Quinn’s rational side knew he had made a judgement call—the wrong one, maybe, but the best he could have done at the time. The rest of her blamed him entirely.

Emotion won.

“Yes, we have,” Quinn said, her tone cold, and as he flinched, a flicker of grim satisfaction sparked within her. She gave him a sharp salute, not waiting for his dismissal. “Ad victoriam, sir.”

Maxson didn’t try to stop her as she marched away. Perhaps he didn’t dare.

Quinn kept a fast pace all the way through the Prydwen, storming past patrols and gaggles of wide-eye initiates like she was heading into battle. Only when she reached the sickbay did she stop, leaning against a nearby gurney, the pain in her midriff burning.

Cade descended on her at once, his fiery gaze saying more about his opinion of her than his mouth ever would. He helped her onto the gurney, tight-lipped and scowling, and curtly went through his questions. When he touched her stomach, however, his hands were gentle.

“You’ve healed surprisingly well, considering you’ve been out in the wasteland,” Cade said in a flat voice. “However, not as well as if you’d stayed. Bed rest in your quarters tonight, with another assessment tomorrow.” He handed her four stimpaks. “One every four hours. I’ll be sending a scribe to check the dose has been administered, in case you fall asleep.”

Quinn smiled. “Thank you.”

Cade’s glare relaxed and he gave her a weary smile of his own. “Rest up, ma’am. We all need you.”

Blue eyes flashed into her mind.

_“Leave the Brotherhood and come work for us instead. We need people like you.”_

Quinn got to her feet and left the room with a murmured thanks. Her throat was tight, her heart going so fast she wondered if she was on the edge of a heart attack. She had to shake this ghost, had to remember what Danse told her: Deacon had never been her friend.

_But maybe he could have, if you’d let him._

Quinn didn’t agree with Danse’s dismissal of the spy. Deacon had never asked her for information, never gotten her involved in his work. Sure, he’d wanted her to join the Railroad, but never really forced the issue either. Despite their different leanings, Quinn felt he had respected her, too.

And maybe—just maybe—a part of her had been a mystery to him as well.

_“I still don’t get why you stuck with the Brotherhood.”_

No. He never would.

Quinn stopped at the door of her room, feeling heavy and defeated. Then she turned, and without the slightest hint of surprise, noticed Carson lurking nearby. She gave him a small wave, and he walked over, grinning guiltily.

“Heard you were back and I just wanted to—”

Quinn hugged him.

Carson hesitated, then gave her a small squeeze. “That works too.”

* * *

The night pressed on.

Quinn stared out into the darkness, lost in her thoughts as the hum of the ship lulled her into a sort of trance. Strange how she had missed it. It reminded her of the whir of the old heating system, when she had lived on base with Nate. Cold loneliness waiting for him to come home, broken by his warm embrace as he slipped between the sheets in the early hours. Kisses followed by something sweeter.

Not for the first time, Quinn wondered if Danse was alright. There was a sharp shame in her chest at the thought of her trying to leave without saying goodbye. But that was what the tape was for.

When would he find it? And how would he take it?

Would he even listen to it at all?

Quinn rolled over onto her side and groaned as the pain in her stomach flared up. She glanced at the stimpaks on the desk that Cade had given her and then looked away again. Taking his advice was sensible, but the pain felt like her punishment. A small price to pay for what she had done.

Trying to ignore the stabbing sensation, Quinn threw her thoughts around for another topic, and landed on Josh.

Had he taken up her offer of solace?

Her instinct said no. Like Quinn, he was stubborn and proud. If he could avoid her help, he would. And yet he had still cried in her arms only days ago.

Shaun returned to the forefront of her mind, a recurring nightmare. But this time it wasn’t the child that she had loved and lost, or even the man that time wrought without her consent.

_“The child synth can’t age, you know.”_

Small and meek, dressed in Institute clothes. Clean. Clinical.

How did they treat him?

Nausea prickled through her as her throat tightened, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Quinn sat up, ignoring the pain, and stumbled out of bed as she gasped for air.

_Do they look after you?_

That thing wasn’t her son. It was a machine, it was…

Her hypocrisy burned as much as her shame. All this time she had been telling Danse he was human, that he and Nick were the same as her, that he wasn’t just a machine...but when it came to the boy…

Quinn leaned over her desk, feeling light-headed. No. This was different. This was a copy, a blatant replica. It was...he was…

A child.

Quinn squeezed her eyes shut, the faces of Josh and the synth melding together until they were one. He was a boy who felt and thought, the same as any other. He hadn’t asked to be made, to be paraded in front of Quinn like some cruel mockery of her life. She couldn’t imagine why Shaun had created him in the first place, but…

_Have they treated you right?_

The question alarmed her. That wasn’t her concern. She had nothing to do with the synth—

_Has he given you the opportunities he missed out on? The attention? The childhood?_

_Do they love you?_

A knock on the door snapped Quinn from her downward spiral, her body curved so far over the desk she was almost lying on it. Her chest was twisting with anxiety, fear of that eternal child spiking through her. But something else was there, too, soothing the pains of her turmoil.

_I care._

Quinn couldn’t say why. The less she thought about it, the better. Anything else made her head and her heart hurt. She turned back to the pile of stimpaks on the desk, and for a second wished they were med-x instead.

The sharp knock on the door sounded again. Quinn cursed, wondering if she could just ignore her visitor. Cade had said he was sending his scribes to check she’d taken her medicine.

_Maybe if I hide them…_

The door opened with a loud creak, and Casey Shingler walked in. At once, her sunny disposition filled the room.

“Evening, ma’am!” she said, smiling broadly as she walked over, her bag swinging from her shoulder. She dumped it on the floor as she reached the foot of the bed, papers spilling from it. Casey glanced down and rolled her eyes, but continued to beam at Quinn. “Whoops. I’ll sort that out later. Had your dose yet?”

“Nope.” Quinn climbed into her bed again and lay on her back. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Casey replied cheerfully, and Quinn heard her walk over to the desk. Then she returned and lifted Quinn’s shirt up. “Hold still.”

For a fleeting moment, she considered telling Casey to go away. Then it passed, and the scribe injected the medicine without incident.

“Y’know, I was reading something fascinating the other day.”

_Oh, here we go,_ Quinn thought irritably, wanting to be left alone. _Some stupid highbrow novel—_

“One of the rarest issues of Grognak the Barbarian, _‘An Axe for All Ages.’_ ’ We found an old basement filled with nearly every issue. When I told Quinlan he nearly fainted.”

Quinn looked up, flabbergasted, as saw Casey was grinning with amusement. Quinn blinked and then said, “You like comic books?”

It was like Casey had been waiting for this question.

“Of _course_ I do! How could I not? The art styles are amazing, and just looking at each artist’s interpretation of Grognak over the years is so interesting! And then there’re the writers, too. I mean, I didn’t much care for _‘In the Bosom of the Corsair Queen,’_ but _‘Fatherless Cur!’_ was a triumph.”

She went on and on, detailing everything from her favourite characters to the best story arcs of the series, right up to her opinion of the text adventure spinoff, _‘The Reign of Grelok.’_

“I’ve only read reviews on it,” Casey sighed, swinging her legs as she sat on Quinn’s desk. “But it sounds _amazing.”_

“You’d get along with MacCready,” Quinn said, smirking.

Casey raised an eyebrow. “MacCready?”

“Friend of mine.”

“The one Rachel went off with?”

“The very same.”

“I think she’s sweet on him.” Casey tugged absent-mindedly on her hair. “But you know Rachel.”

“Yeah. Stubborn as fuck.”

“Can’t think of anyone else I know like that.” Casey looked pointedly at her and Quinn laughed. Then Casey stood up from the edge of the bed where she had been perched and stretched. “I better head off. Cade only wanted me to do a quick visit. ‘Night, Quinn.”

“Goodnight,” Quinn replied. But when Casey reached the door, she said, “Case…”

Casey stopped and looked back. “Yeah?”

“Why aren’t you talking about what happened like everyone else?”

She thought the scribe would be surprised by the question, but instead Casey took it in her stride.

“Because the last thing you need is more gratitude shoved down your throat over something you obviously didn’t want to do.” Casey shrugged and gave a gentle smile. “I’m sure everyone means well, but I figured a change of topic would be the best medicine for you. Some mindless talk about comics before bedtime.”

Quinn didn’t know Casey as well as Carson and Rachel, didn’t have the opportunity to talk to her as often as the others. That hadn’t stopped Casey from guessing exactly what she needed. Quinn felt a rush of affection.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Then, as an afterthought, Casey added, “Ma’am.”

* * *

“Going somewhere, sir?”

Danse whipped around, his rifle raised as he looked towards the voice. He knew it was Haylen, knew he was safe, and yet he couldn’t help but bow to the demands of the tension that ran through him. He’d barely stepped out of the bunker and yet already he’d been spotted.

“You recognised me?” he said, his voice muffled by the cowl that covered his head and face.

“Only because I know you’re here,” Haylen replied, giving him a warm smile. “Don’t worry. You’re fine, sir.”

“I told you to stop calling me ‘sir.’”

“Sorry. Like I said, bad habit.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “And I’m sorry for not replying to your messages. Couldn’t access them on the Prydwen. I only saw them yesterday when I returned to the police station. She’s safe and well.”

“I know. She’s been back here since.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence. Danse suddenly felt guilty for being so short with her, but Quinn’s new absence already had him at the end of his tether.

“Sorry, I’m just…” He smiled and hoped Haylen could see it in his eyes. “I’m on edge. She’s had to go back to continue with the war effort. I won’t see her again until it’s all done. If you could keep me informed with any details that won’t jeopardise the Brotherhood’s operations if they’re intercepted…I’d be grateful.”

Haylen grinned. “That I can do, si—I mean—Danse.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” She nodded to his little getup. “So where you off to, so dressed down? Not like you to go without all that armour plating.”

“Where I’m going requires a little bit of discretion. I won’t lie—I hate being without it, but…” Danse shrugged.

“I get you.” Haylen glanced around. “Want some company for the trip?”

_Yes. God, yes._

“No,” replied Danse, shaking his head. “This is something I have to do alone.”

Haylen rolled her eyes. “I don’t care what happened with Maxson. You’re still my squad leader. We’re still teammates. You don’t have to do anything on your own if you don’t want to.”

“I know.” He hadn’t known that, but just hearing it reaffirmed his decision that Haylen shouldn’t accompany him. It was far too dangerous for her. Too dangerous for any Brotherhood member to tread the path he was about to take.

Haylen frowned, but then stepped forward and nodded. “Take care, Danse.”

She hugged him.

They parted ways, and Danse watched her go, wishing he could have kept her a few minutes longer. Without Quinn, things were always so damn lonely. But that didn’t mean he should mope. Like hell he was just going to sit in the bunker again, waiting to find out if she was ever coming back. This time, he was going to keep himself busy.

He planned to start with Boston.

* * *

_“You look like you’ve been through the wringer, Paladin.”_

Understatement of the century. There was no way Proctor Ingram could ever know how right she was, and Quinn had no intention of telling her. She’d let Ingram’s shallow pitying words of Danse wash over her, until Ingram took the hint and changed the topic. They were going to get Liberty Prime up and running once and for all, and after a string of technical babble that was apparently supposed to describe this to Quinn, she got to the bottom of the matter.

A beryllium agitator. The Mass Fusion building.

_“Hope you don’t mind a little company. Because I’m coming with you.”_

Quinn didn’t care. If Ingram wanted to put herself in harm’s way, that was her choice. She had enough on her plate looking out for Carson and Rachel, who has _insisted_ on joining her on this little trip.

The landscape blurred past her, the bumps and dips making Quinn want to vomit more than ever. Beside her, Rachel Marguerie sat with her feet up on the nearby minigun, ignoring the scowls of Proctor Ingram as she puffed away on a cigar. Carson flapped his hands, coughing pointedly. In response, Rachel blew out a jet of smoke from her nose and shot him a wicked grin.

“Hostile targets sighted on the roof. Prepare to engage!” yelled the pilot.

A blue jet of light knocked the cigar flying, and the knight-sergeant hissed, clutching at her hand. Before Quinn could give so much as an order, Rachel was on the minigun, firing at the Mass Fusion building.

Putting her helmet on, Quinn bit back a laugh as she heard her friend scream _“That was my last one, you assholes!”_   over the noise of the gun.

“Damn synths are crawling all over the place! Thin them out before we drop!” Ingram barked. She might as well have saved her breath. Rachel unloaded lead into each and every one of them, still ranting about her cigar as she went. By the time they reached the building, the synths were in pieces all across the rooftop.

“Remind me to save you a box of Cubans next time the scavengers come in,” the proctor said, stunned.

“I’d be happy with just the one, ma’am.” Rachel stood up and checked over her weapons, before patting her pockets for her stealth boys. “Ready to go when you are.”

The group stepped off the vertibird as it landed, and Ingram glanced around. “This place has seen better days, that’s for sure.”

Slowly, they picked their way through the ruins. But try as she might, Quinn couldn’t see any tech that would help Liberty Prime. Then again, she wouldn’t know it if it hit her in the face. However, when she looked at Ingram for direction, it quickly became apparent that the proctor couldn’t find anything of use either. Unsure what to do, Quinn followed Ingram up the stairs and through to a crumbling office, wondering if the trip had been a waste of time. Maybe the Institute had got to it first?

Ingram frowned. “Damn...I don’t see the agitator anywhere. It must have been moved. Let’s check that terminal over there.” She nodded at a nearby computer.

Quinn walked over and picked up a pencil— _always right when I need them—_ and tapped her way through the terminal. It quickly became obvious that the agitator was lurking somewhere beneath their feet.

Down the hall, Carson was noisily rooting through a desk, before calling out, “There’s some sort of pass here, ma’am!”

“Good work!” Quinn and Ingram said at the same time. They paused, glanced at each other, and grinned.

“Shall we stick to names for this mission?” Quinn asked.

“Sounds like a plan.” Ingram winked and walked off back towards Carson. “Let me see that, Knight.”

Within minutes, all four of them were squashed into the small elevator, their armour pushing up against the already broken glass and splintering it further. Ingram swiped the card and the elevator lurched to life, showing a brief glimpse of the vast, dead skyline of Boston, before taking them down into the depths of the building.

The foyer was a grand affair. Quinn thought it would have been beautiful in its prime. Red walls framed a long descent, a vast chasm of decay, all the floors long since collapsed away. Metal railings trailed around the walkways of the tower, a mixture of gleaming and rusting. Eerie white lights lined the edges, hovering like ghosts—perhaps echoes of the workers that had once inhabited the place.

Signs emblazoned with _‘Mass Fusion’_ were scattered around—some still fixed in their homes after two centuries. Most had fallen off though, slumped on the floor, rotting away in the rubble.

As the elevator reached the halfway point of the tower, doors burst open and synths flooded the area like ants swarming from a nest. Quinn heard Ingram shout something about _“an ambush,”_ but she didn’t listen, instead opening fire. The return attack ripped and scorched their gleaming white suits, but more kept coming, and Quinn realised they were sitting ducks in the elevator.

“Fuck this. I’ll distract them.” Quinn kicked out the nearest panel and vaulted through the opening. It was only as she fell that she saw she was heading towards another set of glass panels.

_The floor._

“Oh sh—”

_Crash._

Quinn went straight through and found herself plummeting further than she had anticipated, screaming all the way down. God, she couldn’t get used to just _dropping._

She hit the ground level with a steady bang, only stumbling slightly before regaining her balance, but losing her grip on her weapon all the same. Quinn watched as it skittered across the floor, stopping next to a statute of what looked like an atom. As she moved to retrieve it, however, it was buried by rubble as an explosion rocked the building. She glanced up, wondering what the hell was going on, when something hit her in the back of the head.

Quinn whirled around to see more synths emerging from the corridors, blue beams raining down on her. She could feel the metal of her armour heating up where the hits were most concentrated, uncomfortably hot against her skin. Above her, the yells of her friends rang out, coupled with their own laser fire.

Quinn sprinted across the room, not entirely sure what she was going to do, only knowing that she had no gun and no cover. Darting forward, Quinn crushed the nearest one’s head against a wall with her fist and picked up the baton it had been carrying, before striking a synth that leaped at her across its head.

The baton sparked and the synth fell onto the floor, electricity running coursing through it. Quinn blinked down at the baton in her hand, momentarily distracted, when a shock of pain ran through her, the display on her helmet shorting out. She staggered, tripped, and fell back, falling on something with a _crunch_ before bouncing and rolling down what she suspected was a set of stairs.

The display flickered back to life as Quinn scrambled to her feet. She saw another synth advancing, holding an electrified baton of its own, while the rest of them continued to shoot at her, slowly chipping through her armour’s defences. Nowhere to go, and no way to fight back without exposing her head.

This was bad.

“We need to get down there!” she heard Carson yell. “We should jump!”

“I guess I’ll just _fly_ down then?” Rachel snapped sarcastically.

“I _told_ you to bring your armour, Rach!”

“Fuck off, Carson.”

“Shut up arguing, both of you!” Ingram yelled. “Knight, go help our paladin! The Knight-Sergeant and I will get the elevator going. I don’t intend to break a second set of legs!”

“On it. Move, Quinn!”

Quinn glanced up to see Carson peering over the hole she had made in the glass floor. She was rewarded for the distraction by another blow from the shock baton, blinding her again. Taking her best guess and trying to ignore the laser that was now burning through the metal of her suit, she staggered towards what she hoped was the wall, and felt a thud as she ran into it.

Seconds later, there was a loud _bang,_ and Quinn felt relief as she heard Carson’s gun begin to fire. The heat in her armour started to cool almost instantly, and a few seconds later, she could see again.

“Keep away from the shock batons!” she shouted to him. “They’ll shortcircuit your helmet!”

“Noted!” Carson quickly turned his attention to the ones carrying the batons instead. When they were down, Quinn picked up one of the batons and helped put the rest of the synths down.

“You alright?” he said, walking towards her with his gun raised, while Quinn dug through the rubble to retrieve her gun.

“Yeah.” Quinn pulled her rifle out, pleased to see that while a little scuffed, it wasn’t damaged. She threw the baton away, panting. Every inch of her hurt. But she could deal with that later. She pointed up to the glass floor above, concerned at the lack of movement. “What about them? They’re stuck up there.”

“Ingram and Rachel can handle themselves,” Carson said, but his helmet couldn’t disguise the worry in his voice. “We dealt with pretty much all of the synths before I jumped. So long as there aren’t any more, they’ll be fine.”

As if on cue, the elevator came to life, slowly lowering down to their level. On board was a smug looking Ingram and a tense Rachel. As soon as she saw Quinn and Carson, she relaxed.

“Nice distraction, ma’am,” she called out, grinning. “How’d that work out for you?”

“I’ve had better plans, I’ll admit,” Quinn replied, her face hot.

“No kidding,” said Carson. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

He imitated her scream, waving his arms in the air. Everyone roared with laughter, including Quinn. He gave her a little nudge, still sniggering, as he said, “That’s one for the history books, that.”

“Alright, alright,” Quinn said, glad her helmet concealed her blush. “I’m a screamer. We all know that.”

“Too much information, ma’am,” Carson muttered, and Quinn felt her cheeks burn even more.

Rachel snorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for some of the gloom and doom being replaced with silly! If you've ever spent any time around military/ambulance/fire service/police personnel, there is a definite tendency towards sex jokes and dark humour. No in-between.
> 
> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title. Thank you for all the comments, as always! I've been super busy at work so not had a chance to respond yet.
> 
> I’m going to be taking a hiatus in a couple of weeks time, around the 25th of November. Christmas is on the horizon and I’m also going to be on a three week training course on the 21st of November, potentially with no internet access. Plenty of time to write chapters, but limited ‘slots’ to send them through to my beta.
> 
> I’ll be finalising the hiatus details around the 25th, once I’ve had a discussion with my beta about what she wants to do over the Christmas period.


	54. The Replicated Man

He shouldn’t be here.

The old church loomed over Danse, the blood splatters in the brickwork browned with age. A heavy sense of foreboding hung over the place, eyes watching him from the long shadows of the dusk.

He should not _be here._

It was as though the building knew he was once Brotherhood. Knew he loved the paladin that had brought them down.

Danse shivered, but then shook his head. He was being stupid. Buildings could not think. They didn’t assess or judge. And neither did the dead.

_“Your nightmares suggest otherwise.”_

He winced at the little voice in his head. It had been silent for some time, Quinn’s presence smothering it. But in the face of his loneliness, it had ventured from its nest and back into the open, taunting him with unwanted thoughts. Dangling Cutler in front of him at every opportunity.

“Shut up,” he muttered to himself, and wearing a scowl, he marched past the marks of battle and slipped inside the church.

Deep black engulfed him, the sweet smell of decay thick as the rubble that covered the floor. And yet there were no bodies—at least none that he could see. Had the Brotherhood buried the dead?

It seemed unlikely, but it was the least worrying explanation for the lack of corpses. Danse tightened his grip on his weapon, his awareness sharpening to a fine point as he crept through the desecrated church. If anyone was lurking—Brotherhood or Railroad—he could be in a lot of trouble.

He found the stairs to the lower levels that Quinn had described quickly enough, and followed the dark stains and furrows in the dirt all the way up to a blasted hole in the wall. The smell was stronger down here, sickly to the point of nausea.

Danse stepped through the hole, and finally he saw the bodies. They had been dragged and piled in the corner of the room, the floor of this tomb pitted with mounds of earth.

Graves. _Dozens_ of them.

Danse pressed himself against a nearby pillar, his eyes flicking back and forth, scanning for any sign of life. But there was none. He was alone with the dead, the stench of their rotting flesh filling his head in a haze of decay.

Danse bit his tongue, trying to keep himself out of his flashbacks, and forced himself to cross the room. He averted his gaze from the pile, a scene so familiar from what he had found in D.C., Danse expected Cutler to round the corner and overwhelm him. But he couldn’t stop now. There was too much to do, too many things he needed to know. He had to keep going.

Danse located a terminal at the back. Setting his weapon on the desk, he tapped his way through the computer, before swearing loudly as a message appeared on the screen.

_“For your safety, this database is now property of the Brotherhood of Steel.—Ad victoriam.”_

A strange anger crackled and hissed through Danse. This had been his one lead, his only chance to find out who he was and where he had come from. If Quinn was right, then these people—this Railroad—helped him escape the Institute and gave him a new life.

_“Damn it!”_ He slammed his fist on the desk, forgetting himself.

“Hands up now!” a voice barked from behind him. “Do it! I won’t hesitate to shoot!”

Cursing under his breath, Danse obeyed the command and turned slowly on the spot. He was about to find out who had been burying the bodies.

A woman with dark skin and an even darker look on her face greeted him. She wore military fatigues, the combat rifle in her hands steady. Her frizzy hair was pulled back in a bun so tight even Marguerie would have approved. Everything about her said _discipline,_ and Danse could feel a spark of admiration, despite the gun pointed at his head.

But first, the rifle.

“Lower your weapon,” Danse said calmly. “I’m no threat to you.”

“Pull down your cowl, and then we’ll see.”

Danse didn’t move. Depending on her allegiance, he could be a dead man.

_“Now!”_

With some reluctance, he followed her orders again, and tugged at the material covering his face. He held his breath as her eyes widened with shock, and felt a stab of terror as she whispered, _“You.”_

Danse waited for the killing shot, but it never came. Instead, she stared at him, suspicion burning from her heavily wrinkled eyes.

Finally, she said, “I should shoot you for being Brotherhood.”

“You were aware of that?”

“I’m aware of a lot of things. Did they send you to finish the job?”

Danse let out a long sigh of relief, ignoring her confusion. Not Brotherhood. No idea what had happened. “I’m an exile. If they knew I was still alive, they’d hunt me until I was dead.”

She considered this, her glare softening into a frown. “Why are you here?”

“Answers.”

“So you know?” The woman’s weapon lowered slightly.

“That I’m a synth?” He was no idiot. Everything about her now screamed _Railroad._ “Yes. I know.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out,” the woman said, finally pointing her barrel away from him.

Danse almost believed her. It didn’t matter. This was a golden opportunity. “Who was I before—?”

She shook her head. “No. I only escorted you to Rivet City. Don’t even know what name you picked for yourself before you went through the wipe. They referred to you as M7-97 at the safehouse to stop anyone tracking you.”

He knew what she meant by ‘anyone,’ but he didn’t really care. Something else had caught his attention. “I picked my own name?”

She smiled. “Yeah. Not every synth does, but you did. Care to tell me it?”

“Danse.” The word felt fresh and new, as if he had never heard it before.

_He had picked his name._

“Nice to meet you, Danse. I’m Watts.” She held out her hand. “Victoria Watts.”

Danse shook it. Her grip was firm, like Quinn’s, and he felt a pang in his chest at the thought of her.

Watts released him, suddenly sullen, and glanced around. “Christ, this shit’s a mess.  I thought the only assholes we had to deal with were the Institute. Des and Deacon should have been better than this. We should have laid low, kept out of the way until the Brotherhood left town. Or at least _moved._ But...Jesus…”

Her fierce glare cracked, and a glimmer of hopeless grief broke through. Danse felt uncomfortable. The Railroad were easy to dismiss when they were nameless agents, but in the face of this raw, human distress, the lines of his conviction were slowly blurring.

Watts shook her head, putting her weapon down on the bloodstained planning table and picking up a shovel off the floor. She paused, and then indicated to another shovel nearby. “Would you…?”

Danse didn’t move. The further he held this woman from himself, the better. Helping her risked familiarity. “I want to know who processed me after the Institute. I _need_ to know. Tell me.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Panic streaked through him as the answers—so close within his grasp—threatened to slip away. “I’m a synth. You’re _supposed_ to help me.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the organisation you belonged to razed this place to the fucking ground,” Watts snapped. She gestured sharply to destruction that surrounded them. “I don’t owe you _shit.”_

“Please,” Danse said, not caring about the obvious pleading tone in his voice. _“Please._ My entire life has been a lie. I just want the truth. That’s all.”

Watts’ expression softened, but she still shook her head. “I’m not giving you that information. Enough of our people have died. So many, I’m not sure we can ever recover. The last thing I want is to put what’s left in the firing line. I’m sorry.”

“You were put in the firing line because of what you tried to do,” Danse said angrily. “Your people tried to blow up the Prydwen.”

“A contingency plan,” Watts shot back, her scowl returning with a vengeance. “No intention of using it unless the Brotherhood struck first. Which they _did.”_

“Only because some of you weren’t careful. They found out. They felt threatened.”

Watts snorted. “A vast military organisation, scared of a small band of synth lovers?” She folded her arms. “It had fuck all to do threat and everything to do with Maxson’s hatred for synths. He’s a bigot, and he doesn’t care who he endangers, so long as he gets his cleansing of the Commonwealth.”

“You know the Brotherhood’s command structure?”

“I know everything there is to know,” Watts replied. Her eyes narrowed. “Except you. You were wiped from their records a few months ago, and you haven’t reappeared since. I wondered if you were dead, or on some sort of spy mission.” She raised her gun and pointed it at him again. “And what I want to know is _how_ you know what happened. Even I’m still catching up on everything.”

“I was in the Brotherhood for over ten years,” Danse said, regarding her gun with marked indifference. She could shoot him if she wanted. He would never give up Quinn’s name. “I have my contacts, people who were sympathetic.”

Watts considered this. “People who would join the Railroad?”

“No. They don’t care about synths. They care about _me.”_ He paused. “Even if they did want to help synths, I wouldn’t direct them to you. The Brotherhood has already shown what it can and will do to people like you. I don’t want to be responsible for the deaths of any more of my friends.”

Watts gave a long sigh, sagging on the spot. Danse almost felt sorry for her. But he remembered what the plot against the Prydwen entailed, and she had just confirmed she was aware of its existence.

“How could you go along with a plan that would kill children?” he asked incredulously.

To her credit, Watts didn’t try to pretend she had no idea what he was talking about. “We’re protecting an entire race, Danse. Protecting all of you. It would have been for the greater good.”

“I know those children,” Danse spat, “put my entire career on the line trying to make Maxson see reason, that keeping them on the ship was wrong. There is no justification for endangering their lives. You disgust me.”

He turned on heel and marched away. Damn her. Damn them all for this, making him care about a group so abhorrent—

“Doctor Amari,” Watts said suddenly.

Danse stopped dead in the centre of the room, frowning as he looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Doctor Amari was the one who wiped your memories. She spent the most time with you...and she might have the answers you need. She’s in—”

_Doctor Amari’s face paled as she looked at Danse, the fear as plain as day._

“Goodneighbor,” Danse finished, his eyes widening.

Watts blinked. “You’ve met her?”

“Once. She seemed shocked, but she gave a reasonable excuse.” Danse rubbed his forehead, feeling a sharp pain. “Or so I thought. Did everyone know I was a machine but me?”

“You’re not a machine,” Watts said sharply, and Danse glanced up at her, half expecting to see Quinn.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied weakly, his shoulders slumping.

Watts regarded him with an annoying look of pity, and then returned to her digging. He watched her thrust the shovel into the dirt, grunting with effort as she carved out the next grave. For a moment, Danse wondered who would fill it, when he was hit by a sharp realisation. She might be the last active Railroad agent. Potentially holding a grudge against the Brotherhood. Alone.

The thought was snuffed out before it had formed, replaced by a deep sense of shame. The feeling surprised him. These people had taken him in, saved him in a lifetime he couldn’t remember. But he wasn’t Railroad. He wasn’t Brotherhood either, or even Institute.

He was just Danse.

Setting his rifle down on the planning table next to Watts’, Danse picked up the spare shovel and walked over to her, scooping up some dirt and tossing it aside. Watts stared at him, her mouth slightly open in shock. Then she gave a small smile and continued.

The confused anger was still there. Danse didn’t understand where it had come from, but it wasn’t leaving him. The whole thing seemed so _unnecessary._ The situation should never have reached such a point in the first place. Why had peace never been struck up with the Railroad, a group who clearly wanted to end the Institute as much as the Brotherhood?

Of course, he knew the answer to this, and something uncomfortable stirred in his stomach.

_“Synths will bring about the destruction of the world. They have to be stopped, defectors or not.”_

Not Maxson’s words, or even Kells’. They were his own. Danse had authorised the collection of intelligence, personally helped oversee the construction of spy missions alongside Elder Maxson. Naturally, this had been without Quinn’s knowledge, and not just because of her personal views. The Railroad had been considered a high risk, and any indication of hostility from the Brotherhood could have provoked an attack.

_It did provoke an attack,_ Danse thought dully. He wiped sweat from his brow, trying to disguise his turmoil. Quinn had told him of the plans Maxson had uncovered, and his retaliation to them.

_Stupid. Thoughtless._

The reaction of a young man, not a leader. What if the battle had failed? Maxson would have sealed the fate of everyone on the ship, and with no soldiers left to defend it or track down intruders. The Railroad had already shown they operated through stealth and infiltration—it would have been the end of the Prydwen.

Danse glanced back at the pile of bodies and suddenly felt sick. He didn’t know what to make of them. They had saved him and countless others, never interfering afterwards. He could have learned so much from them. When the Institute had fallen, they could have helped him leave the Commonwealth for good with Quinn, far from the reach of the Brotherhood.

They had been comfortable with killing children.

Danse paused again, feeling even more conflicted than before. In that moment, he knew he could never share this unrest with Quinn. She had gone through hell to protect the Prydwen, and rightly so. She needed to think he wholeheartedly supported Maxson’s decision. Because it wasn’t about right or wrong. It was about Quinn living with herself after what she had taken part in. This was one lie he was content in telling, and Danse would do whatever it took to help her.

The hours dragged on as he toiled alongside Watts, forging graves and moving bodies, finally adjusting to the stink. One of the last to be buried was a bald man wearing sunglasses. Danse tried not think about how he matched the description Quinn had given in her final standoff. He didn’t want to feel any more hatred towards these people, didn’t want to think that one of them had nearly taken Quinn away from him. Better they all remained nameless.

Eventually, the work was done, and Danse and Watts parted ways without another word. Some things were best left unsaid. She didn’t thank him. She didn’t have to.

* * *

Returning to the Prydwen was always on Danse’s mind. He knew what would happen if he tried it, but the temptation was always there. It had been his home, a place he felt he had truly belonged. To see it still and silent in the sky, possibly with Quinn on board, was unbearable. A place he could not tread.

Danse glanced in the direction of the lonely hills that led back to his bunker. He made his mind up almost instantly, and turned away to the south. He couldn’t go back to the ship, but he wasn’t crawling into that miserable concrete tomb, either. He would wander and see where his aimless amble took him.

As Danse neared the Castle, he considered for a moment stopping to visit Preston. Then he thought better of it, and carried on. Preston had helped him find his new set of power armour at Quinn’s request. He wasn’t Danse’s friend. They had nothing in common. Helping him learn first aid had been a one off. Preston wouldn’t care about that.

Somewhere deep within him, Danse knew this was a lie. It was easier to pretend he was unwanted than to have an excuse to reach out to people. God forbid they realise how lonely he was. They might even take _pity_ on him.

He strode past the Castle at a fair distance, ignoring the watching eyes of the sentry Minutemen.

The landscape became boggy as Danse walked further on, the salty smell of the coast filling his nose, reminding him again of the Prydwen. The ship had been so close to the sea that air was thick with the scent of beaches and the sound of surf. A pang of loss filled his chest, but he trudged on, edging towards the shore and breathing in deep, pretending he was stood on the decks, the cold air tugging at his cowl.

“Is someone there?”

Danse froze, the muffled voice jerking him from his daydream. He glanced around, but could see nothing but rubble. Confused, he took a step forward, and jumped as the voice spoke again.

“I can hear you!”

This time, Danse was able to pinpoint the general direction, and walked over to a pile of scrap.

“Get me out of this thing! I want out!”

Danse stopped in front of an old fridge. It was heavily tarnished and rusted, stained with dirt and scorch marks. He prodded the fridge with his foot, but it didn’t budge. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and said, “Who are you?”

“My name is Billy,” said the voice. Now he was closer, Danse could hear the weary, and yet hopeful notes in the person’s high tone. “Please, I’ve been trapped in here for so long.”

Danse frowned. “How long?”

“I don’t know. A really long time.” There was movement inside. “I hid in here to get away from the bombs, but there isn’t a handle on the inside and it’s really dark in—”

“The _bombs?”_ Now Danse was suspicious. What the hell could live in a fridge for that long? “The bombs were two hundred years ago. What are you?”

“I’m...I’m Billy. I told you,” replied the voice, taking on a trace of worry. “Please, mister. I don’t want to die in here. I want to go home. I miss my mom and dad.”

“Your mom and dad?” Danse looked over his shoulder, searching his surroundings. This had to be a trap of some sort. Whether the voice in the fridge was a distraction, or something that could hurt him when he opened the door, he suspected danger. And yet the voice was scared and desperate and...young. “How old are you? Before you ended up in there, I mean.”

“I don’t remember,” the voice replied. It sounded scared now. “I know I was in school. Maybe...ten?”

Danse stared at the fridge for a while, trying to make up his mind.

“Are you still there?” the voice said. “Please tell me you’re still there.”

“I’m still here,” said Danse, and he was surprised to find his tone was gentle, as if he was talking to the squires on the ship. As if he was talking to a young Arthur Maxson. “Why should I trust you?”

“I’m really tired and lonely,” the voice said.

_Me too,_ thought Danse.

“Can’t you just open the door?”

Danse quickly came to a decision. Putting down his gun, he leaned forward and wrenched the door off the fridge in one forceful movement.

The smell that rose out of the fridge was sickening—the stench of confined humanity. Even more revolting was the owner of the voice: a small, frail ghoul boy in filthy, ragged clothes. He squinted up at Danse, shielding his eyes from the weak afternoon sunlight, and then stretched out with a whimper.

“Ow ow ow.” The boy—Billy—staggered to his feet, leaning against the fridge as he winced and massaged his knees. “My legs are so stiff.”

Danse said nothing. His revulsion must have shown, though, because the boy suddenly shied away from him, casting his eyes down. When he looked up again, he fixed his gaze on everything except Danse.

“It’s all so different now,” Billy said in a small voice. “I must have been gone for a really long time. I...I need to find my parents.”

Danse bit his lip. He had gotten past his brief bout of shock over the ghoul—though why he had expected anything else he didn’t know—and felt sympathy take its place. He had told Quinn he would try harder with his feelings over ghouls, and he meant it. Now his initial disgust had been pushed away, Danse could make good on his word. Not that he would ever refuse to help a child anyway.

The boy’s parents were likely dead. Even if they had somehow survived the war, even if they had become ghouls themselves, the chances of them living through the wasteland and staying in the same area were slim. But Danse would indulge Billy’s hopes regardless, and then take him to the Slog. He could even introduce him to Sarah.

Danse felt a twinge of regret that he hadn’t stopped to speak with Sarah when he’d last visited the settlement with Quinn. There had been far too much on his mind. Now he was eager to see how she was doing.

Pulling down his cowl a little, he gave Billy a small smile. “I’ll help you. Where do they live?”

Billy bounced on the spot, his face lighting up with joy. “You will? You really will?”

“I really will.”

“Thank you! They live in Quincy! Do you know how to get there? None of this place looks familiar.”

Danse nodded, picking up his rifle again as he stood, while Billy whooped. As Danse pulled his cowl back up, however, he turned and found himself face to face with a pale man with long, greasy blond hair. The man grinned, his eyes turning to Billy in a way that Danse didn’t like at all.

“Name’s Bullet,” the man said, his smile widening. “And I have a business proposition for you.”

“No.” Danse shoved the man aside and waved for Billy to follow him. He could pick out a slaver a mile away. If he wasn’t with the boy, Danse would have shot him on sight. Later, maybe.

“Hey!” Bullet shouted, jogging to catch up with him. “I haven’t even—”

Danse whirled around so suddenly, the slaver stopped in his tracks, eyes widening with surprise.

“Go away,” Danse snarled, raising his rifle. “I won’t ask again.”

Bullet looked as if he wanted to argue, his greedy gaze flicking from a nervous Billy to the gun in Danse’s hands. Then he nodded and backed away.

Danse watched him leave, waiting until he was long out of sight before continuing. Billy didn’t ask what had just happened, and Danse had no intention of telling. Let him be innocent of the wasteland for a little bit longer.

* * *

Against all odds, they found the house.

It was on the outskirts of Quincy, the crumbling freeway providing a striking backdrop to a rundown, unremarkable building. The roof was caved in, the paint peeling—it looked thoroughly abandoned.

Danse felt his heart sink as Billy ran off towards the house, voice breaking as he screamed for his parents.

“Mom? Dad? Are you in there?”

Billy disappeared inside.

It was going to be the end of a childhood he could never really escape. To know he was alone in the world, the same way Danse had been—or as Danse had been programmed to believe. But at least Danse had perceived maturing into an adult. Like Rachel’s daughter, Billy would never grow old.

He kicked at the dirt, wondering why he felt so bad.

“Billy? _Billy?”_

Danse nearly dropped his rifle with shock. That was a woman. And…

“Son?” said the gravelly voice of a man. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” replied Billy, sounding like he was about to cry. “It’s really me.”

Danse ran towards the house, not wanting to believe until he had seen it with his own two eyes. He burst into the front room as a female ghoul flung herself at Billy, pulling him into a tight hug as she said, “Oh my god! We thought you were dead!”

“What happened to you?” Billy said, muffled by his mother’s embrace. “You’re all burned up, like me.”

The male ghoul joined the huddle, dropping to his knees as he hugged the woman and his son. “We’re ghouls, Billy. The radiation changed us. Looks like it did the same thing to you.”

Billy shot his father a worried frown, but his mother immediately began to pepper him with loud kisses.

“Mom!” He tried to wriggle away, but his mother clung to him while his dad laughed.

“Don’t worry about it, Billy,” the woman said when she’d finished her affectionate assault. “Your dad and I don’t care what you look like. We still love you.”

“I love you too, mom.” Billy rubbed at his eyes, sounding choked up again. “I’ve missed you guys. It’s been so long.” He turned and smiled at Danse, and for the first time, the adults became aware he was in the room.

“You found Billy?” the woman whispered.

Danse gave a small nod, and at once the ghouls beamed at him.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes becoming watery. “Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to us.” She dabbed at her face with the skirt of her dress, and slowly got to her feet. “But where are my manners? I’m Carol Peabody, and this is my husband, Matt Peabody.”

Matt walked towards Danse, extending his hand as he said, “Thank you for bringing us back our little boy.”

Danse felt himself immediately recoil. It was one thing to help ghouls, and even accept them. But to _touch_ them?

He was saved the embarrassment of an awkward scene as a voice from outside cut through the merriment.

“You there, in the house! I want those ghouls. Especially that kid. You can give them up peaceful like, or die trying to save them.”

Danse peered out of the window to see a group at the end of the mangled front path. A mixture of slavers and gunners, armed and ready for a fight. Bullet stood at the front, giving Danse a nasty smirk as he spotted him looking through the window.

Danse pulled back and shook his head. “There’s a lot of them. They...they want Billy. Tried to purchase him off me before. I didn’t think he’d...”

_“Oh my god! They want Billy!”_

_“They won’t take us, Carol. At least not alive. Billy, get upstairs.”_

His words were drowned out as panic flared up within the family. Carol clutched harder at her son while Matt’s face turned into a deep scowl. Danse looked out of the window again. Crowded together...confident...armed...

There was only one thing to do.

Danse ignored the ghouls as he set down his gun on the kitchen table, strode outside, and marched towards the slaver. Bullet’s smirk filled with glee.

“I ain’t buying them off you now,” he said as Danse stopped in front of him. He moved closer, his face inches away. “You had your chance.”

“And you had yours,” Danse replied.

“Wha—?”

There was a crunch as Danse lunged forward, his head breaking the slaver’s nose. Before the gunners could turn their weapons on him, Danse grabbed Bullet and threw him into them, knocking most of them to the ground. A slaver left standing raised her gun, but Danse was too quick, pulling out his combat knife and driving it into her neck. Danse yanked her rifle from her grasp as she stumbled back, gargling.

The confusion was his shield, the group tripping over each other as they tried to get enough distance to shoot him, missing in their haste and injuring their friends instead.

_Undisciplined. Sloppy. Too close._

They’d relied on intimidation alone, crowding together as he’d first approached, assuming his lack of a gun meant surrender. Just as Danse thought they would. But there were risks, and he quickly felt it as one of them kept her cool and took a calm shot.

The bullets ripped through the fabric of his sleeve, missing his armour and going straight into his flesh. Danse hissed with pain, nearly dropping his gun, and the gunner reloaded, pointing her weapon at his head.

There was a bang, and the gunner fell dead. Everyone glanced towards the house to see Matt and Carol at the door, both wielding rifles and wearing ugly expressions.

_Crack._

Another one dead.

Danse took advantage of the renewed chaos and picked off the rest, his last shot going into the back of Bullet’s head as he tried to run away.

His arm was hurting badly now. Danse dropped the borrowed rifle on the floor and stepped over it, walking back to the house. Carol’s eyes widened as he approached, staring at his bleeding arm.

“Oh god, you’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” Danse said, pressing his hand against his wound.

“You’re insane is what you are, son,” Matt replied, shaking his head. “What the hell were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“The element of surprise is invaluable,” Danse retorted, feeling stung as he walked inside the house, Carol trailing after him. “We were outnumbered and outgunned. If I’d started shooting from the house, you could have been hit in the crossfire. It was the next best thing.”

“If you say so.” Matt folded his arms, frowning. “Either way, we have a first aid kit and some stimpaks, so let Carol patch you up. She was a nurse back in the day, and she’s had a few centuries to sharpen her skills.”

“No thank you.” Danse sat down on the floor and removed his chest armour, before pulling off his shirt and gingerly inspecting his arm. The bullet had passed straight through, thankfully, and the bleeding wasn’t too bad.

Carol crouched down next to him, smiling. “Here, let me just…” She reached out to him.

Danse pulled away from her before she could touch him and snapped, “I said _no!”_

She withdrew, looking shocked, and a heavy silence fell over the room. Billy peeked from around his father, biting his lip. Matt was scowling again.

Danse suddenly felt terrible. But he didn’t want her touching him either. He’d never had a ghoul touch his bare skin before, and the idea was deeply uncomfortable. He imagined a spongy, rotting touch, wet and slimy, that would leave a lingering smell on him for days afterwards. The very thought made him feel sick.

Disappointment flickered across Carol’s face for a moment, but then she glanced at her husband and looked back at Danse, smiling. “Okay, no touching. But either way, thank you for saving my family, honey.”

This made Danse feel even worse. He knew he was being unreasonable, but it was a barrier he couldn’t quite get past yet.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Danse mumbled, staring at his knees.

“Nothing to be sorry for—”

“No, don’t try to brush it off.” He caught her eye and hoped she knew he was being sincere. “I’ve had a...a long time of being told that ghouls are…” He paused, feeling awkward again, but Carol nodded to show she understood. “I’ve finally realised that isn’t the case, but there’s still a lot of things I have to unlearn. But this has nothing to do with you—any of you. There are just some lingering prejudices I need to get rid of.”

“Honey.” Carol crouched down again, and this time her smile was warm and genuine. “I don’t mind. You saw us as human enough to defend, and that’s all that matters to me.”

“You saved us,” Matt said, and his angry expression had turned into something sympathetic. “You’re fine in my book.” He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of caps. “Please, take—”

“I don’t want anybody’s money,” Danse interrupted quickly. “I didn’t do it for a reward.”

Matt considered him, and then put the money away. Danse breathed a sigh of relief. A second later, Carol was at his side, handing him a first aid kit.

“Here you go. If you need any help, just shout.” She paused. “Also, feel free to stay for dinner. I think it’s the least we can do. I promise I’ll wear gloves when I cook.”

Danse blushed, but his anxiety relaxed a little when she winked and he realised she was joking.

The adults pottered around the house while Billy sat with Danse, asking him questions as he patched himself up again. Apparently the boy was fascinated with the procedure rather than disgusted. Out of the corner of his eye, Danse noticed Billy’s parents watching him like a hawk. He suspected this was less out of distrust of Danse and more because Billy had been missing for so long. Either way, Danse wasn’t bothered. He was just glad the boy had made it back to a loving home.

Dinner was a loud, happy affair, Carol serving up a rich, wonderful smelling stew while they all sat around a candle-lit table. Billy sat himself next to Danse, chattering endlessly while Carol and Matt looked on, smiling.

“Do you have children, Danse?” Matt asked through a mouthful of stew.

Carol elbowed him. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Sorry, dear.” He swallowed and gave a sheepish grin.

Danse played with his food, suddenly not hungry. He had never really thought about children before, didn’t think he’d have time for them. It seemed unimportant, something he could consider later in life. Now, though…

“I...don’t think I’m able to have children.” Danse set down his spoon.

“Oh.” Matt paused. “Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine.” Danse shrugged. “Can’t miss what you’ve never had. Truth be told, the thought never really crossed my mind until…”

Carol leaned forward, and Danse caught the look in her eye. She grinned at him. “Met someone special?”

Danse smiled, despite himself, and nodded.

“Pretty girl?”

“Very.”

“Been together long?”

“A few months, though it honestly feels like a lifetime.” Danse didn’t know why he was being so open with these total strangers, but it was nice. They didn’t treat him like he was delicate or damaged, their behaviour constantly reminding him he was a synth. They made him feel human.

“Sounds like a good match,” Matt said, starting on his meal again. Danse followed suit.

Dinner was finished quickly and Carol insisted Danse stay over to save him walking through the dark. She seemed so eager, he couldn’t help but say yes. Billy was bustled off to bed by his fussing mother, while Matt offered Danse whiskey, which he politely declined.

Instead, he sat with the Peabodys as the night wore on, chattering about the days before the bombs. They were more than happy to indulge his love of history. He felt more at ease than he had ever done in the Brotherhood. There were no rules of rank to follow, no expectations on his behaviour—just easy talk, the same as when he was with Quinn.

Finally, the two ghouls went to bed, Carol promising to whip up a storm for breakfast the next day. Danse smiled and said he looked forward to it.

When the creaks of the stairs settled, and Danse was sure they had fallen asleep, he picked up his rifle and set off into the dark wasteland again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> It is looking to be a three week hiatus after the 25th of November. More details to follow next week.
> 
> Throwback to chapter 10, which I believe midnightmooncat caught at the time.
> 
> Victoria Watts is from Fallout 3, and you meet her in Rivet City during the quest, The Replicated Man. Deacon also mentions her by surname in his affinity checks. I wanted to include her because I thought it would be a nice reference, and also because I don’t think the Railroad kept all of their top agents in one place. Watts was definitely considered one of the veterans, so...maybe the Brotherhood overlooked her? :D
> 
> Billy the Ghoul can be found near to University Point.


	55. Tranquility Lane

“There it is...Mass Fusion’s reactor. Don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

The awe in Ingram’s voice was only a fraction of what Quinn felt. Shivers ran down her spine as she stepped out of the elevator they had taken from the main entrance and down into the depths of the facility. Quinn walked over to the dirty window and looked through into a room flooded with a beautiful blue aura. Cobalt and cyan streamed down, so vivid it was like she was a child again, nose pressed against the glass of the New England aquarium. Her dad had taken her when she was four years old.

Quinn could almost see the distant images of swaying seaweed, rainbow coral covering the sandy floor, while glittering shoals rippled through the lazy current. She half expected to see the so-called ‘Queen of the Giant Ocean Tank’ make a grand tour around her subjects: an enormous green sea turtle called Myrtle. The ballsy turtle had even snatched a piece of squid out of a passing shark’s mouth, much to her childish delight.

Quinn smiled at the memory.

Ingram stomped past, breaking the moment. The magic faded, the splendour of the aquarium replaced by decay and disrepair, rusting metal highlighted by clinical blue light. Sighing quietly, Quinn followed the proctor down into the main reactor room. Rachel and Carson trailed after her.

“Take five,” Ingram said, stopping in front of one of the computers. “I want to take a look through some of these terminals before we make our next move. Maybe find a way to deactivate the hidden security measures in place.”

“There are security measures?” Quinn glanced around.

“I said hidden.”

“Oh.”

“I dealt with some earlier when we came in. If I hadn’t, you’d have more than a few Institute laser burns to soothe right now.” Ingram grinned and pointed up at the ceiling. “Turrets.”

Quinn looked to where Ingram was indicating and saw small, inconspicuous mounds that blended in near seamlessly with the surroundings.

“Not to mention robots they might have behind any number of secret wall panels,” Ingram continued. “Knight Carson, come with me.”

Carson obeyed while Quinn stood next to Rachel, who had settled herself on the floor. Rachel pulled out one of her pistols, reloading it and inspecting it with a great deal of care. Then she began to twirl it in her hands, showing a level of practiced skill Quinn would never have guessed for something so frivolous.

“How long have you spent perfecting that?” Quinn asked, smirking behind her helmet.

Rachel gave a guilty smile, spinning the pistol at a startling speed. In one fluid movement, she placed it back in its holster without breaking the momentum. “Too long. Not a lot to do on the Prydwen in downtime hours.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t dropped it and shot off your own foot before now.” It was a trick she’d only ever seen in the movies and TV. Another common piece of televised gunplay sprung to mind. “Ever pistol whipped anyone?”

Rachel looked scandalised. “No!”

Quinn shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry. It was a pre-war thing in fiction, I guess.”

“I’d only ever pistol whip someone if I was desperate. Or wanted to make some sort of forceful point.” Rachel shook her head disapprovingly.

“Why?”

“Because there’s a risk of damaging the gun.” Rachel removed her other pistol and held it up for Quinn to see. “If I was going to hit someone, I do it backhanded, along this part here.” She traced her fingers over the top of the barrel. “It’s called a ridge hand strike. If I hit hard enough, I could easily kill them. But I could also bend or jam my pistol.”

Rachel put the gun back in her holster and shrugged. “Not worth it.”

Now Quinn was really curious. “The desperate part I get, but a forceful point?”

Rachel shrugged. “You know me. Sometimes I just get angry.” She traced her thumb absentmindedly over her right holster. “And sometimes all you really want to do is lash out. That takes a special kind of slight.”

Quinn knew the feeling well. She’d bashed in a raider’s head with a fatman back when she’d been on her way to build the teleporter. That had definitely been a last resort, though. No time to do anything else. It had been a while since she’d thought of it, but the memory still made her sick.

“Ready when you are, Quinn,” Ingram shouted from the terminals.

Quinn strode over, barely listening as Ingram gave her a long list of deactivated security measures—including a sentry bot—and gazed at the reactor. It hummed with power, the dazzling light rising up from a roiling lake of glowing waste.

“Radiation levels are dangerously high in there. Let me know if you need any protection,” Ingram said.

Shaking her head, Quinn said, “I have my power armour. Should be enough.”

“Have you checked the seals recently to make sure it’s fully resistant?”

“No.” She hadn’t realised the suit’s resilience relied on seals, let alone that they could deteriorate.

Ingram rolled her eyes and removed two bottles of rad-x, pressing them into Quinn’s hands. “Just in case.”

“Thanks.” Quinn stowed them away and headed towards the door. It slid open effortlessly and she stepped inside. The rest of her team watched her from the other side of the glass. Out of all of them, Rachel looked the most worried.

_“Now cycling airlock. Please wait.”_

The cool female voice rang out from inside the corridor, before Ingram spoke over it.

“I’ll communicate with you through their intercom system while I monitor you from out here.” She smiled. “The beryllium agitator should be in a port at the top of the reactor.”

_“Initiating decontamination sequence.”_

Quinn walked through a series of metal arches, mist spraying up and coating her armour in a thin film of liquid. As soon as she stepped into the main reactor room, the Geiger counter on her suit began to crackle. Hopefully the seals were doing their job.

It felt oddly warm inside the reactor, but not pleasantly so. Even through her filters, Quinn could taste something heavy and stale in the air, and already she was starting to sweat. She made her way up the metal walkways, similar to the ones of the Prydwen, until she reached the top of the chamber. There was a large podium housing a tarnished sphere. It was dotted in small circular bumps with tubes protruding from their centres.

Thankfully, the console next to this setup was fairly simple, and Ingram guided her over the speaker. The sphere rotated around, revealing a handle. Quinn twisted it, and with a loud hiss, the large metallic cylinder came free.

At once, alarms sounded.

“I thought you’d turned the measures off!” Quinn bellowed from the top of the structure, red lights flashing across her vision. Ingram bent over the terminal she was at, tapping away furiously, while Quinn sprinted back down towards the exit.

The decontamination sequence was horrendously slow, to the point where Quinn was ready to start kicking the door down, when it slid open. She rushed through back into the main area, just as a wall panel at the top slid open, and a sentry bot rumbled out.

“Keep it busy!” Ingram roared over the alarms. “I need to deactivate it from another terminal!”

 _“Hostiles detected.”_ The robot made its way onto the ramp leading down towards them, a loud humming noise sounding as it powered up its weapons. Carson quickly stepped in front of Rachel as it opened fire, taking the brunt of the attack. Ingram ducked past it and ran up towards the room it had come from, disappearing inside.

“Rachel, use your stealth boy and keep out of the way!” Quinn ordered. “We’ll take care of it!”

If Rachel had a problem with this, Quinn never found out. The sentry bot rushed towards her, knocking her off her feet so that she slammed back into the decontamination area. The beryllium agitator rolled out of her hands and across the floor towards the chamber it had been salvaged from, stopping just short of the door.

The sentry bot couldn’t fit through the opening it had barrelled Quinn into, so it turned around and charged Carson. However, before it reached him, Rachel appeared from nowhere, landing on its back. She clung on for dear life with her legs, jamming her combat knife through the gaps in its armoured plating with increasing desperation as it began to spin around, trying to throw her off.

Rachel struck gold—a spark of electricity burst from the sentry bot, and the knight-sergeant flew off, hitting a nearby console and crumpling to the floor. The sentry bot aimed its guns at her still, smoking form, but nothing happened. It seemed whatever she had severed, it directly affected the robot’s weapons systems.

A red jet of light bounced off the sentry bot, and it whirled around to face Carson.

“That’s right, attack me!” he yelled, backing away as it said something that was drowned out by the wail of the sirens. The robot granted his wish and charged again.

_“Lockdown ended.”_

Suddenly, the noise cut, the lights stopped flashing, and the glow of the sentry bot’s interface went out. It continued to roll forward like a derailing train, and Carson leaped out of the way as it hit the casing of the reactor chamber. There was a loud crunch, and cracks shot all the way up the glass.

Quinn got to her feet, still feeling dazed, and staggered out of the decontamination corridor as Carson ran over to Rachel. She walked over to join him, but when she passed the sentry bot, the Geiger counter in her suit crackled. Quinn glanced at it, noting Rachel’s now melted knife, and then at the damaged glass.

“Shit.” She looked at Rachel. The knight-sergeant skin looked burnt all over, and she wasn’t responding to Carson shaking her shoulder. “Carson, the reactor is leaking. We need to leave.”

“Quinn, I don’t know if she’s…” Carson stood up, left his armour, and then crouched back over Rachel, pressing two fingers to her neck. There was a long silence, and then he sighed, a relieved smile spreading over his face. “She’s alive.”

“Alive, but unconscious,” said Ingram. “If she doesn’t wake up soon, she’s going to be in a lot of trouble.”

Quinn jumped. She hadn’t noticed Ingram approach. Turning to the proctor, she said, “What the hell happened? You said the measures were deactivated.”

“I missed the failsafe the first time around. Rookie mistake.” She glanced at Quinn. “Turns out the secondary deactivation terminal was in the room with the sentry bot. If I’d done it right the first time, that wall panel would have opened and I could have executed a full security deactivation.” She watched with a pained expression as Carson got back into his armour and carefully picked Rachel up. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“We’ll talk apologies later,” Quinn said. She jogged to the decontamination corridor, picked up the beryllium agitator, and marched back. “We’ve got radiation leaking through and at least two of you with no protection from it. Let’s go.”

The others nodded, and they quickly made their way out of the reactor room and towards the elevator they had come from. As they walked, Quinn saw all the assaultrons and protectrons that hadn’t activated alongside the sentry bot. It struck her that the turrets on the ceiling hadn’t fired either.

“Seems like you saved our asses,” Quinn said over her shoulder to Ingram. “We could have had a much rougher time if it wasn’t for you.”

“We shouldn’t have had a fight at all,” Ingram muttered, but she looked grateful anyway.

“How did you shut the sentry bot down in the end?”

“Made my way into the security system again and flagged a false alarm.”

Quinn nodded. “Good work.”

Ingram shrugged, but gave a weak smile.

Quinn knew what was weighing on the proctor’s mind. If she’s caught her mistake before Quinn had removed the agitator, Rachel would never have been hurt in the first place. However, as they reached the elevator, a familiar voice spoke.

“Never thought I’d see the day where you’d be carrying me, Liam,” mumbled Rachel.

“Rachel!” Quinn and Carson said together.

Rachel gave a feeble wave, her eyes unfocused. “I’m fine. Put me down.” She began to wriggle, causing Carson to keep a firm grip on her.

“Negative, knight-sergeant,” Ingram said before Quinn could speak. Her expression was stern, but her eyes relieved. “You’ve been out for a few minutes. We need you assessed by our scribes back at the Prydwen before you do anything.”

Rachel grumbled, but stopped struggling. “And my combat knife?”

“Melted. Sorry, Rach,” Quinn said. Rachel looked upset for a moment, but then she closed her eyes, nodded, and didn’t say anything else.

The short trip in the elevator back to the main hall was cramped and uncomfortable. Quinn couldn’t help but notice Rachel leaning into Carson’s embrace. For all her posturing, she obviously trusted him a great deal.

Gunfire sounded above them, growing in volume the closer they travelled to their destination.

“We have company,” Ingram said, checking her weapon was loaded and turning her head to Quinn. She pulled a flare gun from her armour and passed it over. “Backup was supposed to arrive for us while we collected the agitator. So unless they’ve triggered another security response, then Institute must have sent reinforcements. I’ll help hold them off. Just make sure you get the agitator out of here.”

“I already have a flare gun,” Quinn replied.

“That one has a different colour in it. There’s a vertibird on standby waiting for that signal to help us get the agitator out as soon as possible. You’re going to without us.”

Quinn glanced from Ingram to Carson and Rachel, and then the agitator in her hands. “Rachel, how many stealth boys do you have?”

Rachel patted her pockets and produced three. She offered them to Quinn. Quinn shook her head and gave the agitator and the flare gun to Rachel.

“What the hell are you—?” began Ingram, but Quinn cut across her.

“Rach, use your stealth boys for you and Carson before we get to the main hall. Both of you head over to the elevator and get back to the rooftop. With any luck, the Institute won’t notice you leave. The vertibird will pick you up, and I’ll stay behind to help fight.” Quinn looked at Carson. “Carson, you’re to go with Rachel on the vertibird as her escort, and to ensure the agitator gets to the Prydwen if anything goes wrong. Understood?”

Carson and Rachel glanced at Ingram. She looked furious, but then her scowl lessened and she nodded.

“You heard our paladin,” she said. “Activate the stealth boys now. We’re nearly there.”

Seconds later, Rachel and Carson had disappeared, and when the elevator doors opened and Ingram and Quinn went charging out, the laser fire was directed only at them. Quinn had seen Rachel disappear under a stealth boy enough times to spot the telltale ripples in the air, and felt a stab of relief that the stealth field was large enough to conceal the agitator. Rachel and Carson made a mad dash across the room to the elevator, and the synths, distracted by the other soldiers, did not notice.

The battle was over in minutes, the combined strength of Quinn, Ingram, and the Brotherhood forces overwhelming the Institute. When the last synth fell, sparking at Ingram’s feet, she glared at Quinn, and then nodded towards the elevator as she hit the call button.

It arrived quickly, and the two of them clambered in, silent as they rose to the top of the building like a cork in water. Had Carson and Rachel made it?

There was no sign of their bodies when they reached the roof, and no indication of a crashed vertibird either. All that remained was an empty flare gun and two flat stealth boys, laid neatly and deliberately in a line at the edge of the building. Quinn hoped that was Carson and Rachel’s way of saying everything had worked out fine. In the distance, she could see a vertibird flying away, and her nerves settled a little.

Ingram crouched down next to the items and smiled. She looked up at Quinn. “You’re a damn idiot, you know that?”

Quinn grinned. “I know.”

“Thanks for the assist, ma’am. Risky...but appreciated.” Ingram stood up and pulled out another flare gun, shooting it into the air. A red signal broke above them, and within minutes, a vertibird was whirring in the distance. “The others will make their way back themselves. We need to get there pronto and check the agitator wasn’t intercepted along the way. All in all, though...good call.”

“Thanks.”

Ingram stared back out into the distance. “I’m in for a world of trouble when we return.”

Quinn shot her a look. “Why?”

“I’m not supposed to leave the ship.” She indicated sourly to her missing legs, the gaps filled in by her modified power armour. “As Elder Maxson says, I’m a liability. If anything goes wrong—if anything malfunctions—I put the entire team at risk.”

“But…” Quinn frowned. “We all use power armour. If any of our suits malfunctioned, we’d all become a liability.”

 _“Precisely,”_ Ingram said, and anger bubbled up in her tone at once. “I’ve tried to explain it, Cade _himself_ has tried to explain it, but Maxson won’t listen to reason! He should know better—he should know what it’s like to be caged like an animal, watching everyone else be useful on the field while—”

Ingram suddenly stopped, her eyes wide as she glanced at Quinn. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I...never mind.”

“No, go on,” Quinn said, curious. “It’s not like I’m going to tell him.”

The proctor hesitated, weighing Quinn up. Then she said, “I’ve been in the Brotherhood for about as long as Maxson has been in the east. He was sent over from the west by his mother when he was just a kid, and...well…”

Quinn listened intently as Maxson’s childhood unfolded before her: a miserable, lonely existence. No friends. Barely any kind of conversation that wasn’t reverence or duty. Doctor Li’s comment about Maxson trying to make friends with a Brotherhood war machine suddenly made a lot more sense. But above it all, Quinn pictured Danse—a soldier probably going through hardships of his own, whether through training or missions or even the loss of Krieg—taking the time to befriend the boy. Bring books for him. Talk to him. Treat him like an actual _person._

It suddenly struck Quinn that perhaps the leader of the Brotherhood and the leader of the Institute had much more similar upbringings than either of them realised.

“Keep it to yourself,” said Ingram when she’d finished. “Not many people remember him from when he was a kid. Elder Maxson wants it to remain that way.”

Quinn nodded. “I will, I promise.”

As if on cue, the vertibird arrived.

* * *

Quinn went straight to the sickbay. Ingram didn’t stop her, didn’t even question her. She was left to rush through the Prydwen, unhindered. Good. Anyone who got in her way would have received a punch on the nose.

She found Rachel sat up in a gurney, laughing at Cade, every inch of her skin covered in a lilac-tinged, transparent gel. Quinn recognised it as the one Danse had made for her when she’d received laser burns from the protectron in 35 Court. Rachel’s uniform was gone, replaced by a hospital gown that left little to the imagination. Not that Rachel minded.

Cade seemed unsure of his feelings on the matter. Normally professional and unfazed, he appeared to be doing everything he could to keep his eyes fixed firmly on Rachel’s. As Quinn walked in, he looked eager for an escape.

“Ma’am,” he said, jumping up from his desk and hurrying past her.

Quinn watched him go, and then glanced back at Rachel, grinning. “Feeling better then, I take it?”

“Oh yeah,” Rachel stretched out, smearing some of the gel on the gurney. “Cade got a female scribe to put this crap on me, but they couldn’t stay and so he had to look after me.” Something mischievous glinted in her eye. “I’m not blind. He’s married to his work, but that doesn’t mean the man can’t have a crush. And this get-up…” Rachel plucked at the semi-transparent gown. “His face when he came back and saw what the scribe had stuffed me in. _Hysterical.”_

She started laughing again, and Quinn joined in. She was confused, though. “I once had that gel stuff made for me when I burned my arms. It made me high as fuck. Why isn’t it affecting you?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was tripping balls half an hour ago,” Rachel said, her grin lopsided. “But that little side effect wears off pretty quickly, especially because Cade gets the measurements exactly right. If you’re high for longer than that, someone wasn’t precise enough with their chem mixing.”

Quinn couldn’t imagine Danse being anything less than perfect when it came to precision, but she decided to take the knight-sergeant’s word for it.

Eventually, Rachel lay back against the gurney and sighed, still smiling.

“I feel like I’m coming to the end of a long day.” She turned to Quinn. “I’m tired...but…”

“I get you.”

“The war is almost over. Soon Prime will be up and running again, and then…the Commonwealth will be free. We’ll have peace.” Rachel’s smile faded slightly. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll go see my daughter when this is done.”

Quinn’s mouth fell open. “Your daughter? You mean…?”

“No.” Rachel paused. “I...I don’t know. It’s not safe. And as I’ve said, she’s grown up without me. But I want to...I want to see her. I miss her.”

Quinn said nothing for a moment. If she was too forceful, she could drive Rachel away from this decision—the _right_ decision. Instead, she chose her words carefully. “What brought on this change?”

Rachel shrugged and then winced. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately, in my downtime. So many people died at that church, and...Viv’s kid—Josh, I think his name is—I’ve seen him around a lot. He looks lost. Like he doesn’t know what to do without his parents. And it made me wonder if…”

“If your daughter was the same?”

Rachel nodded, casting her gaze to her knees. “It’s probably too little, too late. But with George dying and all…”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

The offer left Quinn’s lips before she could stop it. Never mind the consequences, the risk, the idea of Danse being on his own while she traipsed across a wasteland America with a woman that would kill him on sight. Thankfully, Rachel looked horrified at the very thought.

“No!” she said quickly, sitting up so sharp her outburst was followed by a cry of pain. Rachel doubled over, holding herself as she quivered on the bed, and then eventually settled down again, clearly anxious. “No, Quinn. I know you mean well, and I trust you, but the last thing I want to do is give that information to someone else. I’d kill before I shared her location. It’s safer with just me, y’know?”

“I know,” Quinn replied, smiling.

“I’m sorry, you must think—”

“I _understand,”_ Quinn said loudly, and Rachel stopped, giving her a weak grin.

“Thanks.”

“When do you say sorry anyway?” Quinn said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve counted two apologies so far, and one of them was when we punched each other in the face.”

The second was at the church. Thankfully, the knight-sergeant chose not to bring it up either.

“I didn’t apologise _for_ punching you in the face, though. But there’s nothing like bonding after a good punch up,” Rachel said, closing her eyes. “And if you’re lucky, you might hear it again before this war is done. I just need to make a solid, spectacular fuck up. Carson can help me in that department, I think.”

Quinn snorted with laughter.

* * *

The days rolled by, Maxson allowing Quinn and the others who had fought at Mass Fusion to rest and recover for the final push. Now the Elder was having her record everything she knew about the Institute, as well as the team she planned to take and the gear she’d need. The Institute layout, Quinn had already written down and sent back to him. If everything went to plan, they’d be starting the assault tomorrow. All that was left was outfitting the usual suspects that would be accompanying her. The other squad-leaders would sort the rest of the teams out.

“Stealth boys for Rachel, of course,” she said, pacing around the room. “And some armour, too. Light, if she throws a bitch fit, but I don’t care what she says, she’s wearing the damn thing.”

Bantios flitted around with a clipboard while Quinn reeled off orders for the assault, taking frantic notes. She barely knew the man, but something felt off. Quinn couldn’t place her finger on it.

It was only when she turned to him and gave him a direct order that the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He nodded, his face expressionless, and ticked another box. No stammer. No tremble.

Nothing.

“Everything alright, Bantios?” she asked, folding her arms.

Bantios nodded, but didn’t answer.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bantios said, his voice flat. “I’m fine, ma’am.”

“You can’t lie for shit.” She thought that might get his tremor going, but instead he simply looked at her, his eyes devoid of any emotion. It was downright disturbing. Quinn leaned against her desk and considered him. “What’s wrong? Normally you’re a nervous wreck. I’d say the confidence is an improvement, but…”

“It’s not confidence,” Bantios said dully. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Why?”

He didn’t reply, burying his attention back in his clipboard. Quinn stood up, strode over to him, and snatched it from his hands, throwing it over her shoulder in one sharp motion. He jumped, suddenly looking wary, and then rubbed the back of his neck.

Quinn walked across the room, dragged two chairs over, and set them opposite each other. Bantios took the hint and sat down while she fetched a pair of Nuka-Colas from the lockers that lined the walls, prising the caps off at the edge of her desk. Quinn handed one to him as she took her own seat, and he mumbled, “Thanks.”

“Has something happened?” Quinn asked, crossing her legs and taking a sip of her drink. “Anyone treating you like shit? I can always kick some ass if necessary.”

Bantios gave a small laugh, but shook his head. “I don’t...really have friends. Not anymore. People don’t like to talk to me.”

Quinn frowned. “You always seemed to get on well with Initiate Núñez.”

As she said it, she realised the problem, Núñez’ vacant gaze staring at her from the church. But it was too late to take back her words now. Bantios’ face crumpled, and he dropped his drink with a clang, putting his head in his hands.

“Oh shit,” Quinn said, setting her own bottle on the floor and leaning over, gripping his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I didn’t…”

“We joined up together,” Bantios said, his voice thick and wavering. “Came from the same town. He promised my mamí he’d keep me safe. But I never made the same promise to his.” His shoulders started to shake. “My only friend, and he’s gone. I tried to save him. I tried so _hard_ to save him! But he died. I can’t even do that right, can’t do anything right. I’m so _useless.”_

Quinn gave him a hard shake, and he looked up, his eyes red and watery.

“You are not useless,” she said fiercely. “You’re young and you’re anxious and you grossly undervalue yourself, but you are _not_ useless.” Quinn paused. “You’re a good person, David. I’ve seen you work. You try your best and you’re always there, ready to help when I need you. I’ve never heard a complaint about you in my life.”

Bantios said nothing, bowing his head. Quinn sat back in her chair.

“I want you to go see Cade,” she said after a long silence.

He glanced up at her, clearly confused.

“You need to talk with him. He offers counselling services.” Quinn smiled. “I’ve used them myself, once or twice. They help.”

She expected him to refuse, say he was fine and that he didn’t need them. To her greatest surprise, he nodded.

“I...I think you’re right.” He tried to smile back, but it faltered and crumbled away. Bantios stood up, not looking at her, and went to retrieve his clipboard.

“Leave it,” said Quinn. “Go see Cade and tell him I sent you. I’ll get someone else to help me with this.”

Bantios nodded, but then turned and started fussing over the soda he had spilt over the floor.

_“David.”_

Bantios flushed and quickly left the room, muttering a, _“Yes, ma’am.”_

Quinn mopped up the mess he had left behind, taking her time, and then leaned out of her room and asked a passing scribe to find Carson. By the time he arrived, she had put the chairs back where they belonged, finished her own Nuka-Cola, and even retrieved the clipboard from under her bed.

She shot Carson a winning smile and tossed him it, laughing as he fumbled and nearly dropped the thing. He took over Bantios’ role without question, jotting down everything she said, and even making suggestions of his own. Quinn was grateful for it—being a leader was goddamn terrifying sometimes. All these people looking up to her for guidance, and she had to somehow pretend she knew what she was doing?

Finally, the plans were done, and Carson left with them. However, a second later he came back.

“Handed them over to a scribe. They’ll take them over to Elder Maxson for approval.” He walked over and sat on the bed next to her. “How are you feeling?”

Quinn’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Fine. Why?”

Carson shrugged. “Just...tomorrow’s a big day. The Institute. And, well...your son.”

At once her stomach dropped away, and she thought she was going to be sick. She had forgotten the half truth that she had told Carson, that Shaun was an employee of the Institute.

Quinn had been throwing herself into this, into every meaningless little task. Her dark work. Tomorrow there was a high chance they would kill her boy, and she would be in the front line, leading the charge. Betraying him, exactly like she had betrayed Deacon.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Quinn said quietly. “In fact, I’m doing everything I can not to think of it.”

Carson put his arm around her and gave a little squeeze. “Noted.”

But think of it she did, endlessly and hopelessly, bitter old men and unloved children dancing behind her eyes every time she closed them. Frightened synth boys that looked like Josh and Shaun infesting her sleep. An elderly ghost—the image of Nate, but different in so many ways—whispering words of treachery as she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling.

Eventually, her dreams changed.

* * *

_“You’re such an asshole, you know that?”_

Nate winced as he heard the phone slam back in the receiver, and angry footsteps marched from the hall towards the living room.

“How did it g—?” he began to ask, hoping the sarcasm would be enough to make Quinn laugh, when he looked up and saw her wiping her eyes. Nate got to his feet and once and strode over to his wife, pulling her close. “Aw, hun. Don’t let him get to you.”

“It’s the same old _shit,”_ Quinn spat, her venom only broken by her sniffling. “Telling me I’m too good for you, that...that…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, but he knew what she meant.

“Was he drunk?”

“Yes.”

“There you go then. Nothing more to it.” Nate tried to keep his voice light, but the rage at his father-in-law simmered in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he’d go and see Mrs. Bossanova later. She always found a way to calm him down whenever this happened.

Behind them, Shaun began crying from his bedroom. Quinn made a move, but Nate stopped her and shook his head. “You settle yourself down. I’ll deal with him.”

She gave a small smile and nodded. “Alright.”

Nate walked down the corridor and entered Shaun’s room. The kid had lungs, that was for sure. He was going to be a firecracker, just like his mother.

Grinning to himself, Nate reached into the crib and picked Shaun up, and within seconds he had stopped crying. Nate gazed down at his son, the love in his chest so great he felt he was going to burst. Supporting Shaun’s head with his arm, Nate used his free hand to touch Shaun’s soft cheeks. Shaun reached up and grabbed Nate’s finger, sucking on it.

Nate laughed.

_I could have lost all of this._

Quinn had stopped him. She had stopped him making the worst mistake in his life. The mistake her own father had made, deepening the rift with every sloppy attempt to fix the damage.

All of a sudden, Nate’s anger at Daniel simply ebbed away, replaced by a strong sense of pity. Nate had a beautiful son and an amazing wife. He had a home and a future. He had a happy life.

Daniel had beer and a lonely apartment.

“Hun?”

Nate glanced up to see Quinn stood in the doorway, looking worried. He frowned, adjusting his grip on Shaun as his son squirmed. “Yeah?”

“I’m…” She rubbed at her eyes, tearful again. “I’m so sorry for my dad. I’m so, _so_ sorry for what he keeps sayi—”

Within three steps Nate was at her side, planting a kiss on her head with care, to avoid squashing Shaun.

“Your dad’s a grown man,” he said, before leaning forward again and meeting her lips this time. “And you’re not responsible for what he says or does.”

Quinn hesitated, but then nodded, giving him a watery smile. “I love you.”

“And I love you.” Another kiss. Longer, needier.

Shaun grumbled and squirmed.

“All right, all right. Sorry, little man,” Nate said as his son began to cry again.

Quinn took Shaun from him, grinning. “I’ll get his bottle.”

Nate followed her back through into the living room, his eyes drifting down to her backside as she walked. When she reached the fridge, she turned and caught him looking. They grinned at each other.

“Plenty of time for that later,” she said, her tone mischievous.

“I look forward to it.” Nate dropped down onto the sofa, admiring his wife and fondly watching his son. He couldn’t wait until the kid was old enough to play games. The first thing he was going to was get Shaun his very own baseball glove…

His cheerful mood was broken somewhat as the newest addition to the family hovered into the room, a tray balanced on its arm.

“Ah, Mr. Fuckface!” boomed Codsworth, floating over to the sofa and revolving on the spot. “Would you care for a drink?”

Nate scowled as Quinn snorted with laughter.

“Honey, please get the robot to stop calling me that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title.
> 
> Today is BNC’s 1st birthday (when I first posted it on tumblr)! Can’t believe I’ve been writing this bloody thing for a year...
> 
> I’m going to be taking a hiatus due to work being very busy right now. I’m going to be back in early January, after Christmas. Maybe before that, depending on how my schedule is. But I can feel the stress creeping back with every week I don’t have a chapter on time for my beta due to work, and I’d rather not put myself through that.
> 
> If I’m back before then, yay! But as it stands, writing every day for a year has taken its toll, and I need a break.
> 
> See you next year!


	56. Preiddeu Annwfn

They were giving her the honour.

That’s what Ingram had described the reactivation of Liberty Prime. An honour. Lugging the excessively heavy beryllium agitator up the scaffolding stairs without her power armour, Quinn considered it more of a chore. Up and up she went, struggling with the damn agitator every step of the way, until she reached Prime’s shoulders.

Trying not to fall back down the stairs as she wobbled in the process of lifting the thing, Quinn heaved the agitator to the port. It went in effortlessly and with a satisfying clunk, and she wiped the sweat off her face as she walked back down to the ground.

The path back to the station where Ingram and Doctor Li stood was lined with soldiers. They saluted Quinn, and to her own surprise, she saluted back. She made her way up the metal walkways where all the consoles were set up, overlooking Prime’s still form.

It was the moment of truth. Everything she had fought for, bled for, killed for...it had all been for this. The button looked cartoonish in appearance, glowing and red. As soon as it was activated, the war would truly begin. The Brotherhood would claim her son.

Quinn pressed it without hesitation.

Liberty Prime rumbled to life, steam gushing from its joints, its hands twisting and turning in their sockets. This was the first time she’d bothered to look at Prime properly, and to Quinn, it was like the alien from that old film, _The Day the Earth Stood Still._ Only bigger. It was absolutely huge, taller than a house and easily wider than a tank.

_“Fusion core: reinitialised. Liberty Prime full system analysis. All systems: nominal. Weapons: hot.”_

Prime lifted its arms and took hold of the metal supports surrounding it, tearing them away as if they were little more than cardboard, and stepping out from its restraints.

_“Mission: the destruction of any and all Chinese communists. Probability of a Chinese victory: impossible!”_

To Quinn’s left, a man stepped forward. Rachel had called him a ‘Star Paladin’, whatever that was. She suspected he outranked her. He had a decent set of lungs on him, though, because he suddenly bellowed, “Brotherhood! Salute!”

The lines of soldiers stood to attention and shouted back, “Ad victoriam!”

Quinn clambered back into her power armour, rolling her eyes as Prime strode away, delivering its next line.

_“Proceeding to target coordinates! Freedom is the sovereign right of every American! Democracy is non-negotiable!”_

Propaganda, all of it. The same bullshit she’d been fed during the war, to the point where even a whisper of the ‘Reds’ made her prickle in fear. Nate had hated it with a passion. Now, with centuries between her and the Sino-American conflict, she had cast off the shackles of ignorance. Quinn glanced at Rachel, who shrugged in response. She knew what the knight-sergeant was telling her.

_Can’t change the past._

Quinn looked from Rachel to Carson, who nodded.

“Ready when you are, ma’am,” he said.

“For whatever we find in there,” Rachel added.

“Have you got my back?” Quinn whispered, so quietly she didn’t think they’d hear her.

_Shaun. Shaun. Shaun._

“Always,” replied Carson.

Quinn took a deep breath and set off after Liberty Prime. As she walked, she looked up and saw Maxson on the deck of the Prydwen, gazing down at Prime. She remembered what Doctor Li had said about the little boy who had tried to ‘make friends with a Brotherhood war machine.’ She remembered what Ingram had told her about his isolation in the Citadel. And finally, the snippets of the last war Danse had mentioned, when Prime had first been used. It all clicked together.

Ingram said Maxson had also wanted Quinn to have the honour of reactivating Liberty Prime. Suddenly, she very much doubted that.

Maxson turned away from the marching robot and went back inside the Prydwen. A lonely boy. A lonely man.

“Ma’am, we need to keep up with it,” Carson said, bringing her back to earth with a bump. He pointed to Liberty Prime.

Quinn followed.

* * *

The bunker was cold and quiet. Grit crunched under Danse’s feet as he walked across the empty room, the noise echoing as he made his usual rounds securing the perimeter. Once he was sure he was alone, Danse pulled his cowl off and threw onto the terminal desk, and set his rifle down on the nearby table.

He rubbed his hands together, shivering, but didn’t bother finding more layers. He could warm himself up in a minute. Time to check if he had any messages from Haylen.

Danse seated himself at the terminal and clicked through. There _was_ a message waiting for him. No title. No indication it had been sent from Haylen if outside eyes looked at it. But he knew, and the two words made his stomach tighten.

_Preiddeu Annwfn._

Of course, Haylen couldn’t know about the long discussions he’d had with Maxson. Couldn’t know that together, the two of them had named the airship as their own private joke. But she had obviously decided that he was well read enough to understand the reference. No, Haylen had no idea of the significance this meant to him—to Arthur as well—but it was a fitting title.

The Spoils of Annwfn. The expedition to the underworld. The Brotherhood were making their move on the Institute.

Danse tapped out of the message and set his hand down on the desk, lost in thought. He’d always thought he’d be involved in this final push. Now here he was, exiled to this bunker—an outsider.

Sighing, Danse picked up his cowl, and then frowned and looked down as he heard something slide off the table and land on the floor with a metallic rattle. He bent forward, a chill raking through him as he picked up a dirty piece of string with a battered gold ring hanging from it. Danse glanced back at the desk and saw its counterpart lying on top of a holotape he hadn’t noticed before.

How long had it been there? Since Quinn had left? And why had she removed the rings? She _never_ removed her rings. Even when they had visited Nate. Even when they’d _buried_ him.

Setting the ring down, he carefully moved aside the other and picked the tape up.

The scratched off, tattered label. The crack in the side where he’d thrown it in the Goodneighbor hotel. This was his suicide note—or at least the holotape he had left it on. Why the hell had she kept it?

Danse didn’t want to listen to this again, didn’t want to hear the sad ramblings of a desperate and broken man. But she had put it in the bunker with her rings for a reason. It was his duty to listen.

Shaking slightly, he put the tape in the terminal and pressed play. Relief flooded through him as he realised Quinn had taped over his final message. He could hear the familiar hum of the Prydwen in the background, and knew she must have recorded it on the ship. For a second, Danse closed his eyes and basked in the noise, pretending he was lying in his old quarters.

The relief was short-lived. Quinn began to speak, and all thoughts of home were driven from his mind.

_“Danse.”_

Her voice sounded strange. Like she was holding something back. He wasn’t sure what.

_“I’m...I’m sorry I had to go. I’m not in any danger, and I’m not leaving you. I just…there's been a lot of stuff on my mind lately. Things I didn't tell you about, things I didn't realise myself. I was ignoring it. But now…”_

He could hear the apprehension, the unpacking of thoughts. Laying them out neatly in her head before she shared them with him.

_“I think about Shaun. All the pain he’s caused. The synths. The super mutants. The Railroad. He could have changed the Institute, made them better, but instead he carried it on. For the greater good, maybe. I don’t know. I never believed that was enough of a reason to murder.”_

Victoria Watts’ words came to mind, and Danse found himself in agreement with Quinn.

_“Maybe that makes me a hypocrite after what I did at the church, but I’ll have to live with that choice.”_

There was a long pause.

_“Danse...I’m scared.”_

Danse sat up straight in his chair, his gut suddenly twisting.

_“I love Shaun, but I can’t let him go on like this. I have to stop him, like you said to me all those months ago. I have to stop him, but…”_

There was a choking noise, and Danse realised she was crying. It was an awful sound that he wanted to silence, but was powerless to smother. Danse didn't have to endure it, though. He could just cut the tape, never play it again, and simply wait for her to come back. They could discuss it then.

He continued to listen.

_“What mother kills their own child? I should be protecting him from the world! But I already failed in that, didn’t I? He turned into a monster and I didn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it. Now I’m helping the Brotherhood take him down. Whatever happens, even if I get him out of there, he’ll die. Maxson will want him on trial, or the wasteland will overwhelm him. He’s never lived out here, Danse. How the hell would he cope? I’m taking it all away from him.”_

“Quinn…” Danse shook his head. She should have talked to him about this, even if she couldn't quite understand it at the time. They were supposed to look after each other, not hide things away. He didn't know what stung more: that she’d obviously planned to leave without telling him—the tape serving as her only explanation—or that Quinn had to resort to a recording to say what was on her mind.

_“It’s my responsibility to see this through to the end. I...I don’t know what’s going to happen. But if I don’t come back…”_

“No,” Danse said aloud, getting to his feet.

_“If the worst happens, take the rings to Nate’s grave. They deserve to be with him. Not me.”_

He couldn't believe he was hearing this. It sounded like she expected it to happen.

_“And Danse?”_

“Yes?” he replied, as though she could hear him.

_“I…”_ She paused, on the edge of a monumental statement, and then seemed to change her mind. _“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I came to the Commonwealth. The best person I ever met. And if anything happens, don’t shut yourself away. Go to Preston. Or Hancock or Piper, or hell, even Nick. Just someone. For me. Please.”_

“I will,” Danse mumbled.

The tape didn’t end, but rolled on in silence for a good minute before she spoke again.

_“I wish you were going with me.”_

The recording cut out. Danse stared at the screen of the terminal, barely able to breathe. With a trembling hand, he ejected the holotape and gripped at it until his knuckles turned white.

How the hell could Quinn do this to him? Leave him such a thing? Never mind that he was already worried sick, forbidden from helping her through the last, most dangerous step of the war. Now what he had been trying to distract himself from had been brought right to the forefront. She was scared. She needed him. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Danse flung the tape away with a grunt of frustration. It skittered away under the bed and out of sight, but he paid it no mind, drowning in his own visions of what was happening right now.

He paced around the room for a few minutes, and then halted next to the power armour stand, gritting his teeth. He was anxious, but also _furious._ Quinn must have known it would serve no purpose other than to torment him until she came back. How desperate must she have been to do it anyway?

Danse’s will snapped. He strode back over to the bed, dropped to his knees, and forced himself under the frame. The holotape lay at the back near the wall, and after a few minutes of struggling, it was in his grasp. He wriggled out again and made his way back to the terminal, turning the tape over and over in his hands before inserting it into the computer.

There was a whir and a clunk, the text on the screen changing rapidly as it processed the holotape. Danse watched it, clicking through the options, his hand hovering over the keyboard. He hit the enter key. The whirring grew louder, and finally he heard her voice again.

_“Danse.”_

* * *

“Quinn.”

Quinn glanced over her shoulder as Carson approached. “Yeah?”

“Just wanted to see how you're holding up.”

The C.I.T. building was in sight, the droves of synths that had tried to halt their progress doing little more than serving as Liberty Prime’s target practice. In the distance, Liberty Prime stomped on, shouting a line about communism before squishing something underfoot.

“If I'm honest, this wasn't something I'd planned to do with my life.” She shrugged. “But I'm making the best of it.”

“I want a serious answer,” Carson replied. She sensed he was scowling behind his helmet. “Your son—”

“Don't. If I didn't want to talk about it on the Prydwen, then I don't want to talk about it now.”

“But—”

“This isn’t the time or the place, Carson,” Quinn said, shooting the head off a synth that had materialised feet away from them.

A loud explosion ended the conversation. Both of them looked back to the Brotherhood's rampaging robot and saw it had stopped outside the C.I.T. building, blue and red lasers flying everywhere.

The two of them sprinted through the last of the streets, making their way towards the battle. As they arrived, Quinn was surprised to see Maxson stood amongst his troops. She had expected him to remain safe and tucked away on the ship, and yet here he was, holding a weapon that looked as if it weighed as much as she did. A laser minigun, judging by the beams coming out of the thing.

Quinn was not impressed. All that came to mind was ‘glory seeker.’ She was aware that it was an unfair assessment—it was too risky for a military leader to be in every battle—but it felt good to dismiss his presence.

Something that she couldn't ignore, though, was the familiar face of Scribe Bantios, lurking in the crowd and wearing a field scribe uniform stuffed to bursting point with medicine. She didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, but she’d deal with him in a minute.

Between soldiers and a giant robot, the synth attackers were quickly brought down. Before Maxson could give his orders, Quinn rounded on Bantios.

“David!” she snapped, making everyone—including Elder Maxson—jump. The scribe turned to face her with a look of defiance in his eye while the rest of the soldiers pretended they hadn’t just collectively shit their pants. Quinn wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing, or something more sinister. She beckoned him forward, and he obeyed, his head held high as they walked away from the curious soldiers.

“Why are you here? I thought I sent you to Cade.”

“Cade sent me back,” Bantios replied. “He gave his counselling and said I was fit for duty. I’m to move with Elder Maxson’s squad.”

Quinn scowled. “Did Cade get the full picture of what was going on?”

Bantios’ demeanour faltered and he suddenly looked nervous.

“I thought so.” She shook her head. “You need to go back to the Prydwen if you’ve not been assessed properly.”

“I _need_ to be here!” Bantios said, his pitch suddenly high. “Everyone needs to be here! We need as many scribes as possible!”

“Not if you’re a fucking liability,” Quinn replied, and felt a slight twinge of guilt as he flinched. But she stuck to her guns. “The last thing I need is you being unable to cope and causing someone else to die. If you haven’t been assessed fully by Cade, then in my opinion you’re not fit for active duty.”

“In your opinion.”

“My opinion matters.” She stepped towards him and pointed to the Prydwen. “Enough backchat. Go.”

“Ma’am.” Gone was the newfound confidence, replaced by raw begging. “Please. Let me help.”

Quinn sighed. She remembered her fury at being left behind by Danse. How useless she felt. “Fine. On the condition you stay here and tend to anyone brought out. Maxson can find another scribe for the push. Understood?”

Bantios looked as if he wanted to argue further still. “I don’t know how much good I’ll be out here when you’re all inside...but yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Seconds later, an immense red beam shot out from Liberty Prime’s head, burning deep into the ground at the base of the building, followed by one of its rockets. The explosion shook the ground, and when the smoke cleared, Quinn saw a sizable dent had been carved out of the earth, the surrounding dirt scorched and smoking.

Maxson and his men headed on without hesitation, Haylen at their heels, dropping down into the hole and out of sight. Quinn edged forward and peered inside. Somewhere in that damning darkness was her son. Soon he would know she was responsible for this.

Quinn drew back, feeling panicked, when a heavy hand clamped on her shoulder. She turned to see Carson and Rachel at her side. Casey was a little way behind them, keeping her distance.

“We’re here,” Rachel said, and Carson nodded. “Whatever you need, we’re here for you.”

Quinn glanced between her friends and felt her nerves recede. No matter what happened, they’d be there. They’d pull her through. And so would Danse, when she returned to him. It was time to face Shaun and finish this, once and for all.

It still took a few seconds for Quinn to move. She stood at the edge, gazing into the abyss for what felt like an age. Carson and Rachel didn’t speak, letting her have her moment. Eventually, Quinn bowed her head, took a deep breath, and fell into the black.

* * *

“...be more than enough to annihilate the Institute in its entirety.”

Maxson pressed something into Quinn’s hands, but she was barely listening to him. She was back in these gleaming halls. Her son would soon know. It was getting difficult to breathe again, difficult to concentrate.

The second Maxson turned away and began firing off orders to Ingram about setting up the teleporter for their escape, Carson gave her a little shake.

“Hang on,” he whispered. “You can do this.”

She shouldn’t be here. More than anything, she was a liability, like Bantios. Her lack of focus was going to get someone killed.

_Think of Danse. Think of everyone in the Commonwealth relying on you._

_Think of Deacon._

Quinn slipped the device Maxson had given her—a fusion pulse charge, he had called it—into one of the compartments on her armour and set off after the rest of the group. Casey Shingler gave her a reassuring smile and fell in line with Quinn, Carson, and Rachel. Quinn couldn’t think of any other scribe she’d want by her side for the final part of her journey.

However, when Quinn looked ahead back to Elder Maxson, she saw another scribe standing next to Haylen, wearing a heavy, pocketed field scribe uniform and a makeshift cowl.

For one ridiculous, heart-stopping moment, she thought it was Danse. That was impossible, though. Wrong build. Wrong height. Even the wrong skin colour. But as soon as he caught her eye and tried to hurry away, Quinn realised who it was. She didn’t know where he had gotten the cowl from, but that simply added to her irritation. She marched over, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him back down the corridor before Maxson noticed the scuffle.

“I told you to stay put,” she snarled, throwing Bantios against the wall. If common sense wouldn’t work, maybe intimidation would do better.

“You need scribes with you!” Bantios retorted, stepping towards her and poking her in the chestplate. Quinn had no idea where this new, ballsy Bantios had come from, but it took her completely by surprise. She gaped at him, lost for words.

Thankfully, Rachel Marguerie had no such issues. She grabbed hold of his hand the moment it touched Quinn, twisted it behind him, and slammed him straight back into the wall. Apparently he was more scared of Rachel than he was of Quinn, because his attitude quickly dissipated.

“You treat your commanding officer with respect,” Rachel hissed, twisting his arm further.

“I want to help!” he gasped, his eyes bulging with the pain. “They have enough scribes up there! The fight is _in here!”_

“Rachel!” snapped Quinn.

“Ma’am.” Rachel let go of Bantios immediately, and he turned around, meek under the knight-sergeant’s wrathful glare.

“David,” Quinn said, shaking her head. “If I let you go with us, there’s a good chance you’ll die.”

“But you’ll take that risk with the others?” He straightened up, meeting her eye, a fierce determination burning within them.

“They didn’t fall apart after the last mission.”

“That was different, ma’am. I don’t have any more friends to lose.”

“And that’s precisely what worries me.” Quinn took her helmet off and gave him a strained smile. “Don’t you see, David? You’ll take risks. You won’t look after yourself. You’ll get yourself killed through—”

_Reckless._

“—careless behaviour. I did the same thing myself when my son died. I had nothing else to live for, and it showed. I don’t want you on my conscience as well.”

Bantios considered this. “I disagree, ma’am.”

“Oh?”

“I still have everything to live for. I still have my teammates. So long as I’m alive, I can help them. Help you all.” Bantios stood to attention. “Requesting permission to assist, ma’am.”

Quinn glanced over to Carson and Rachel, searching for an answer. They gave none. The decision was hers alone. She closed her eyes, sighing. They needed the help. They really did. After the battle with the Railroad, the scribes were stretched thin. Bantios was right. But that didn’t make her feel any better about the situation.

“I read the last report.” Quinn said in a low voice. “The Railroad tried to pick the scribes off first so there’d be no one left to patch up the rest of us. Don’t think the Institute won’t apply the same tactics, because they _will._ You stick with us and keep your head down. Understood?”

Bantios nodded, beaming.

Somehow, she knew she was going to regret this. He wasn’t experienced enough. Trying not to dwell on it, Quinn turned on her heel and went back down the corridor she had dragged Bantios from. The others followed. Behind her, she heard Casey comforting the newest addition to their team.

“Stay close to me and you’ll be fine,” the scribe whispered to Bantios. “Quinn won’t let you come to any harm. You saw her in the church. We couldn’t have a better leader looking out for us.”

Quinn felt her own nerves settle. It was one thing to be told the Brotherhood needed her, but another for her own squad to trust her so completely. They didn’t just rely on her—they had faith in her. She remembered how relieved Danse had seemed when assured she had complete confidence in him, and at last she understood. Their belief eased the burden of responsibility.

_If we get out of this, I need to give Casey more pre-war knowledge for her reports._

The big _‘if.’_ The concept of her own mortality had never been so suffocating. It was all around her, in every shadow, every sealed door and twisting corridor. At any moment, any one of them could die. And as she glanced at Bantios, she had a horrible feeling who would be first.

* * *

Even without speaking, Maxson looked crestfallen. He hesitated as he scanned the jumbled mess of ruined machinery, rusted past the point of repair. Tubes and wires hung out of broken equipment, cracked plaster flaking from the walls and ceiling. It cracked beneath their feet like fossilised snow.

“This is the Institute?” Maxson said, apparently unable to contain his opinion any longer. “I’m disappointed. I expected more from them.”

Quinn bit down on a sarcastic remark, letting the annoyance run rampant in the privacy of her own head. Was Maxson really in this for the good of the Commonwealth, or did he just want the glory of defeating an enemy as omnipotent as the Institute?

She knew what awaited them in the deeper levels. He’d be appeased soon enough. For now, Quinn was happy to let him stew.

She had to give it to Maxson, though—when the synths and the turrets finally kicked in and all hell was let loose, he didn’t falter. His guards tried to pull him back, protect him from their attackers, but he shrugged them off and stepped in with the front line. His gatling laser—or at least that’s what Carson said it was—mowed down anything that stood in his way, and when the synths got too close, he took them out with a firm swing of the enormous gun. This provoked an extremely quiet tut of disapproval from Rachel, just low enough so Maxson wouldn’t hear her.

Haylen and the other scribes hung back while the soldiers did their work. When the chaos settled and Quinn sent her team ahead to scout the area, Haylen sidled over.

“I sent him a message,” she muttered. “He knows.”

Quinn stared at her. Haylen looked back with a placid expression like she had just commented on the weather. But her eyes were sharp and urging her not to say anything stupid. Haylen’s meaning clicked into place, and Quinn gave her a subtle nod before walking away to catch up with Maxson.

They breezed through the Old Robotics area, Quinn watching Maxson’s disdain grow alongside her irritation. Only when they broke through to the main facility did his mood change.

Gleaming white walls and pristine computers greeted them. The Elder peered over, his face reflected in the clean equipment and polished work surfaces. In the distance, rows of plants bloomed in their planters. Maxson studied each wonder, and for a second Quinn was convinced he would find merit in the good that the Institute _did_ achieve.

Instead, his face grew dark.

“This...this is what I had feared.”

Quinn frowned. He’d only seen the nicest part of the Institute, where clean crops and medicine were developed. What did he fear exactly? Scientific progress?

She would never get an answer. Before Quinn could ask him, a very large, very angry gorilla came loping into the room.

She had forgotten about the gorillas. There was a yell of panic amongst the soldiers, and Maxson let loose with his gatling laser. It singed its fur, the smell of burning skin filling the room. With a howl, it ripped the weapon from Maxson’s hands and threw it across the room, taking out several of the terminals.

A lesser man might have frozen with shock. But Elder Maxson—unperturbed by his eighty-something pound weapon being tossed away like it was little more than a Jangles the Moon Monkey doll—ducked as the gorilla swung for him, picked up a nearby scalpel off one of the work desks, and thrust it up into the animal’s eye. It seemed the stories of him taking on a deathclaw alone had some merit.

The gorilla went wild, flailing its arms and bellowing as it tried to get the scalpel out, serving only to push it in further. The Brotherhood soldiers finished it off while Maxson retrieved his gun, just as the second one arrived. The Elder mowed it down with ease, a look of relief on his face as he cradled his weapon. It disappeared quickly, his usual cold authority returning. He prodded the nearest gorilla with his foot and sneered, before turning his attention back to them.

“Move out.”

They crept like predators into the next room, passing abandoned workstations, the area saturated with the smell of the now open gorilla cage. Animals the Institute had created from synth technology for no reason other than curiosity, now dead in the previous lab.

From nowhere, synths appeared, wearing the same blank faces and unblemished white suits that they had in the Mass Fusion building. Quinn helped destroy them, indifferent to this battle until something new strayed into their path. A scientist wearing a red Institute uniform poked his head out from behind a table. One of the Brotherhood knights immediately raised his rifle and shot the scientist in the head.

Other scientists emerged from their hiding places. Some tried to run, while others stayed and fought. All equally ended up dead.

_“Stop! Stop!”_

The words were loud and sharp, and it took Quinn a few seconds to realise it was she who was screaming them. She strode over to Maxson as she pulled her helmet off, not entirely sure what level of trouble she was about to land herself in, but knowing she had to say _something._

“They’re civilians, sir! We can’t shoot them!” She halted in front of him, not liking the incredulous look he gave her.

“You suggest we just lie down and let them attack us?” he retorted.

“They’re attacking us because we’ve invaded their home and started killing everything in sight. They’re probably just trying to make sure they take us down first. We’re here to end the Institute, not murder civilians!”

“They _are_ the Institute.”

“They’re _doctors.”_ Quinn waved her hands towards the plants that surrounded them. _“Scientists._ Carrots and potatoes aren’t going to bring about another nuclear war. Most of the people down here weren’t even aware what was going on. Doctor Li certainly didn’t.”

_“What’s a potatoes?”_ she heard one of the soldiers mutter behind her.

Maxson glanced to the bodies that littered the floor, obviously considering her argument. “We don’t know which ones are synths.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “We shouldn’t be reduced to killing everyone just because they _might_ be synths. Or is the Brotherhood just as susceptible as the average wastelander to the Institute’s fearmongering?”

“It’s about time they reaped the rewards of the dissent they’ve sown,” chipped in Rachel.

“Shut it, Marguerie,” Quinn snapped, not even bothering to look at the knight-sergeant. She focused her attention back on the Elder. “Sir. Please listen to me.”

Quinn had never been so direct with Maxson in front of others before. Danse would have accused her of insolence, and he’d be right. But if being brazen meant this madness was stopped before it got started, she’d accept whatever reprimand Maxson gave her. She fixed him with her best sour expression, and after a few seconds he nodded.

“Scientists of the Institute,” he called out, his voice ringing clearly across the spacious room. “This is your one and only chance. If you stay out of our way and leave quietly, you won’t be harmed. Attack us and you will die.”

Quinn could feel the hidden eyes in the room watching them. Then one by one, the scientists stood up, their hands raised as they set down their weapons.

“Send a message to the rest of your people,” Maxson said, eyeing them with great dislike, “and then go. You will be escorted to an evacuation point and taken in for questioning. We now control your teleporter. If you refuse to cooperate, you will be left behind, and you will die. If you try to fight back, you will die. Just one false move, and my personnel will cut you down without a second thought. Is that clear?”

The mass of frightened faces nodded.

“Then go.”

Her throat felt tight as the civilians filed out behind one of Maxson’s armoured knights. What did the Brotherhood do to prisoners of war, aside from interrogate them for knowledge? Hopefully nothing awful, but Quinn couldn’t help feeling like she’d traded them one nasty fate for another.

On they went, moving through the Institute and to the exit that led to the main hall. An ambush would clearly be waiting for them here, but there was no other way through. Quinn glanced from Bantios, who was stood nearby, to Rachel, Carson, and Casey.

“There’s gonna be hell,” she said in a low voice, while Maxson gave his orders out. “Stay low, stay safe, and don’t take any unnecessary risks.” Quinn fixed her eye on Bantios for this last statement. He nodded.

“Usual tactics, ma’am?” Rachel asked with a grin.

Quinn forced herself to return it as she put her helmet back on. “Damn straight.”

Seconds later, the doors slid open, and the charge began. Quinn tore across the atrium, Carson and Casey at her heels. Rachel outstripped them all instantly, leaping forward in a whirlwind of gleaming steel, taking down the nearest synth in one cleaving movement. Then she was gone, the shimmer in the air the only sign she existed at all.

Synths were appearing in droves, as if every unit Shaun had was being thrown at them. All of them emotionless, plastic husks that attacked with cool efficiency. For every one that fell, three more stood in its place. They were quickly being overwhelmed.

From across the room, Quinn saw Casey grab hold of Bantios and pull him down, just as a blast of blue hit the wall behind him right where his head had been. Even from this distance, he looked shaken, but Quinn didn’t have time to dwell on it. She had given Maxson intel that the synths used shock batons, which in turn disrupted the helmet display, and they were pressing hard on the weakness. It was all Quinn could do to keep out of the reach of the enemy, sometimes being forced to shoot blind when the painful rush of electricity left her in the dark.

Maxson came into his own. Free from the restraints of the power armour, he directed his troops with ease, picking out the pockets of vulnerability and exploiting them before Quinn had even identified they were there. For the first time since she had met him, she felt a glimmer of respect.

As the cannon fodder thinned out, however, the real fighters joined the fray. The arrival of the coursers was to be expected, and yet Quinn froze on the spot. She’d taken one down alongside Nick to obtain the coveted courser’s chip, and it had nearly cost Quinn her life. Now they were surrounded by the things.

There was a burst of light, and Quinn turned to see one of them feet away from Casey—a dark-skinned synth with sunglasses who was the eerie image of Carson. Had he originally been made as a replacement before finding his calling amongst the Institute’s elite?

With a precise and chilling calmness, the courser turned his gun on the scribe. The blast engulfed the left side of Casey’s face, and she dropped like a stone, caught from hitting the floor by a horrified Bantios.

_“Case!”_

Carson appeared from nowhere, throwing a punch that could break a man’s jaw. The courser flowed around the attack, sending the knight crashing into a pack of Gen 2 synths, while Quinn sprinted across the room. She could see Bantios behind the heated fight, working feverishly on Casey, not paying any attention to the danger around him. Not even trying to get out of harm’s way.

_He’s going to get himself killed!_

Rachel materialised, taking a leap at the courser advancing on Carson. The synth whipped around, catching her in midair, and put his hands around her neck as if to break it.

Carson charged like an armoured bull, his metal-plated fist hitting the courser’s head with the force of a sledgehammer. There was a crunch and both synth and knight-sergeant went flying. Rachel managed to land unsteadily on her feet, but the courser staggered forward, slamming face-first into a nearby pillar. The back of his head was caved in, and he slid down the pristine white metal, leaving a slick red trail behind. He tried to turn around, blood flowing from his shattered nose, but his eyes were unfocused, and he fell to his knees, twitching and swaying on the spot.

Rachel pulled out her pistol and finished the job. She spared one sorrowful flick of her eyes towards Casey’s crumpled form, and then dove back into the fray with a heightened level of violence.

Carson, on the other hand, did exactly what Quinn expected him to: he lost his head. Ducking down, he used his body as a shield while Bantios bent over Casey. The battle raged on around Carson, but he ignored it, the panic clear in his every movement. Quinn knew she had to stop him before his emotions took over completely.

“Carson!”

Even through all the din, he heard her. He looked up at Quinn, and then back down to Casey, not moving.

Quinn tried again. “Knight, on your feet! _Now!”_

For a moment, she thought he would tell her where to go. If he did, she’d have to leave him and deal with the insubordination later, or just pretend it never happened—her rank or her friendship.

However, Carson stood, picking his rifle up off the floor where he’d thrown it when he’d punched the courser. He ran past, his voice full of malice as he said, _“Ma’am!”_

Quinn didn’t blame him. If he couldn’t forgive her for that order, she’d understand. But right now, all that mattered was getting through this damn mess alive. Then she could weather Carson’s hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning, as per usual.
> 
> So for some clarification (and because I don’t doubt there are/will be Arthurian readers in my audience at some point), Preiddeu Annwfn is a welsh poem about King Arthur (referenced back in chapter 34). There have been many retellings and interpretations, some calling the Prydwen his shield rather than his ship, and other such differences. The one I have chosen to use is that Arthur sailed to the ‘underworld’ on the ship the Prydwen, as it fits in with what I was trying to go for.
> 
> Research was hard to find on the topic, but I had a lot of fun drawing parallels between Arthurian myth and Fallout 4, especially since Bethesda obviously considered it, given the name of the Prydwen. I strongly suggest looking into it if you have the time!
> 
> And finally, I really hate how the Brotherhood just go in and mow everyone down, including people who aren't even fighting back. And I HATE that the SS doesn't even question it.
> 
> So, Quinn kicking off, as always.
> 
> Hope everyone had a fantastic Christmas and New Year!


	57. Goodbye

“What a goddamn mess.” Rachel turned her gaze from the bodies littering the floor to the great, sweeping vistas of the Institute. The trees and grass were burning, and scorch marks left a chaotic pattern on the walls of the towers. The glass floor was cracked and covered in blood. Some human. Most of it synth.

Quinn didn’t answer the knight-sergeant. She only had eyes for Casey.

Bantios hadn’t moved from Casey’s side throughout the entire fight. He was covered in cuts, bruises, and burns from where the synths had tried to pick him off, only for them to be brought down by the circling Carson.

Quinn knew it was fruitless. Although laser burns generally weren’t that severe, Casey had been caught in the face at close range by a courser. She suspected their weapons were better than standard synth rifles, and judging from Casey’s lack of movement, this suspicion was probably truth.

The second the last synth had fallen, Carson had abandoned his armour and returned to Casey’s side. No one had tried to stop him—not even Maxson. Instead, an uneasy look flickered amongst the seasoned soldiers, conveying the silent message.

Casey was dying.

How long she had left, no one knew. But it was impossible to pass from initiate to knight without losing someone along the way. Quinn wondered which loved one had been snatched from each and every soldier—a friend? A partner? A child?

Rachel hovered at Quinn’s side, watching with a blank expression as Bantios passed empty syringes and stimpaks to Carson. Bantios took the lilac-tinged gel he had just made and carefully applied it to Casey’s face.

Rachel turned away, helping the other scribes move the rest of the injured. The dead were left untouched.

Quinn stood rooted to the spot. Afraid to hesitate. Afraid to proceed. She was about to lose someone she cared about—did she really want another horrific death etched into her brain? Deacon’s eyes were already pushing her to the limit.

Finally, she took a deep breath and slowly walked over, her feet loud in the quiet ruins of the facility. As soon as she saw Casey’s wounds, Quinn wished she’d kept her distance.

Her left eye was completely gone. The remains dripping down her blistered, weeping skin, stripped raw on one side, while a good section of her hair was burned away.

Bantios didn’t look much better up close. He was pale and glistening, his own eyes intact and determined. The front of his uniform was badly charred around the midriff, but he seemed unconcerned, his hands shaking. Other scribes flitted around him, preoccupied with their own patients.

There was a surprisingly low body count, all things considered. If Quinn didn’t know better, she would have thought the Institute were caught unawares. Clearly Shaun hadn’t expected this deception from her.

Ingram’s voice crackled over the intercom.

_“Paladin, we’ve located the reactor. It’s accessible through the Advanced Systems division. Only...you can’t reach it. The security override can only come from the Director’s terminal. You’ll need to access his quarters.”_

His quarters? Oh God. Shaun.

“Ready when you are, ma’am.”

Quinn turned to see Rachel Marguerie at her elbow, a sombre Carson getting to his feet as Bantios continued with Casey. He dragged himself over, looking crushed, but still prepared to move.

“Both of you stay here,” Quinn said. She wouldn’t allow them to come with her. Not for this moment.

“But—”

“I said no.” Quinn reloaded her rifle and lowered her voice. “My son...he’ll be up there. I need to...I want to see him alone.”

“Don’t be _ridiculous,”_ Rachel hissed.

“You of all people should understand the lengths a parent will go for their child.”

The knight-sergeant looked as if Quinn had slapped her, her face going chalk white. Quinn was too far gone to care.

“Carson,” she said, filling the stunned silence, “go back to Casey and help Bantios look after her. Rachel, help deal with the dead and injured. We need to keep things moving. They’ve thrown a good chunk of their forces at us just now, so I highly doubt there will be much resistance.”

“You’re going to the director’s office. Of course there’ll be resistance!” Rachel had found her voice again, her cheeks blotting with indignant colour. “Let us help you!”

_“I’ve given you your orders, now do it!”_

Every head in the vicinity turned to look at them, including Elder Maxson’s. Rachel stood on the spot, her face burning—from anger or embarrassment, Quinn didn’t know. Would Rachel tell Maxson what Quinn was planning, or would she bow to her rank?

Rachel’s scowl deepened, but she nodded. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Noted. Dismissed, knight-sergeant.”

Rachel gave her a jerky salute and marched away. Quinn waited until she was some distance from her, and then walked over to the elevator. She had just reached the controls when Maxson himself stopped her.

“You’re going alone, Paladin?”

Was that concern in his voice?

“Yes, sir,” Quinn replied, standing to attention. “I believe it will be easier to get through alone. They’ll focus their attention on the biggest threat, leaving me free to reach the terminal.”

Maxson frowned, obviously mulling her plan over in his head. But then he let go of her arm and stepped back, picking up his weapon again. “Ad victoriam, sister.”

“Ad victoriam, sir.” Quinn summoned the elevator, quickly forcing herself inside. her power armour just about fitting. There was a beep as the glass doors slid shut, and then she was lowered into the ground. Her friends watched from afar as Quinn disappeared out of sight.

Within seconds, she reached her destination. Stepping out of the elevator, Quinn deactivated it, just in case Rachel got any ideas about using a stealth boy and following. Then she walked through the maintenance corridors, vaguely remembering the way as she strode through the area she had first met Shaun, his synth clone trapped and terrified behind glass. Terrified of _her._

Quinn’s stomach turned at the memory, but she continued on, steeling herself for their final encounter. She made her way into the next room, the decor changing from harsh yellows and off-whites to a series of subtle, soothing greys. Her heart raced harder with every step she took up the polished stairs, her armour making her progress bang.

And then there was Shaun.

He was lying in some sort of pod—a bed, she thought. His face was gaunt and ashen, his features in their usual blank arrangement. Even when Quinn left her armour, there was no trace of upset or surprise. He just stared at her, almost resigned in his mannerisms. Had he known of her betrayal after all?

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” Same monotone voice. Same calm expression.

Quinn licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “The Institute had to be stopped, Shaun.”

He looked less than impressed with this answer. “And you’ve decided this for yourself? Or has it been fed to you by the corrupt societies above ground?” The blankness turned to anger. “It’s not enough that I lay here dying. Now you plan on...what? Destroying everything?”

Dying?

Quinn felt her mouth drop open, but she barely noticed. Her world was constricting, her breath caught in her throat as her heartbeat roared in her ears. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Despite it all, despite what she had left for Danse on that tape, Quinn had hoped there would be a way to get Shaun out. None of the Brotherhood knew who he was, after all.

Shaun took advantage of her silence. “Tell me, then. Under what righteous pretence have you justified this atrocity?”

“You’re dying?” she whispered. Even now, knowing this could be the outcome, the truth of it was too unbearable to accept. Her son. Her _son._

“Answer my question,” Shaun replied, his voice tight and harsh. “Then I will answer yours.”

“I…” Quinn shut her eyes, trying to unfog her thoughts. He was _dying._ Why? How? The Institute was supposed to be the pinnacle of technology. Could they have saved him if she hadn’t led the attack? “I…”

_“Why have you done this?”_

The crack of his tone was enough to bring her back. Quinn shook her head and glared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

For a moment, Shaun looked taken aback. But she didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“Corrupt societies? They’re just human beings trying to get by in this shithole of a world that you keep them in. You’ve barely walked amongst those people, Shaun. You just sit down here, deciding their fates for them while keeping the science that could improve their lives for yourself. Kidnapping them. Killing them. Mutating them into monstrosities and then releasing them back into the Commonwealth.”

“Ah, you found that old division, did you?” He didn’t seem bothered that she had learned such a dirty secret. On the contrary, he sounded curious. It filled her with a rage enough to drown out the mounting grief.

“Yes, I did. And I know you did nothing to stop it,” Quinn spat. “But even then, that doesn’t touch onto what you’ve done with the synths. You’ve creating living, breathing people, and you treat them no better than objects. I’ve found out firsthand the pain you cause them!”

A knowing look flickered across Shaun’s face. “M7-97?”

“Don’t call him that.” Her voice was sharp, and he looked surprised. She didn’t care. “His name is _Danse._ He’s a person, not a machine or an experiment. The same with your...replica.”

“I remember you telling me you would treat the child as though he were a human.” A faint smile played on his lips. “I’m glad to see there is now evidence for that.” He shifted in his bed and winced, his face taking on a dark look. “Your new companions will kill you both if they ever find out M7...Danse survived.”

“Maybe they will. But I’ll take as many of them as I can with me. He’s human, just like the rest of the synths. The Brotherhood’s desire to kill them is _wrong.”_

“You annihilated their biggest protector.” Suddenly he wore a nasty smirk. “The Railroad. You allowed us to reclaim many of our lost units once they were out of the picture. I’d intended to thank you, before all of _this_ took place.”

“You disgust me.”

The words were out before she could stop them. Once again, Shaun looked stunned, but Quinn felt no regrets.

“It’s hard to believe I’m related to you,” Shaun said, his voice rough with anger. For the first time since she had met him, he looked truly furious, wearing a scowl worthy of Quinn herself. Then it was gone, and the unsettling blank returned.

“Well, none of it matters now. You’ll accomplish your task and ruin humanity’s best hope for the future. The only question then is why you’re still standing here. Is it regret, or did you just come to gloat?”

Quinn hugged herself as she stared at him, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. “I want to save you.”

“Save me? Why on earth would you do that?”

“You’re my son. I love you.”

Shaun stared at her for what felt like an age. Finally, he said, “How can you claim to love me after what has transpired? You have said yourself you are against all that I stand for, all that I believe in. And now you are here, making sure everything I hold dear _burns.”_

“Because that’s what love is,” Quinn replied, trying desperately to hold eye contact with him. “This has been hardest decision I have ever had to make, _because_ I love you. But this can’t go on. You’ve hurt too many people. You had to be stopped, for the good of everyone in the Commonwealth.”

She paused.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t help you before it got to this point. You became the man that you are, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I failed you. But no matter what, you’re still my son. I will always love you. Even if you don’t love me. Even if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Shaun murmured. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then come with me,” Quinn said. “I’ll find a way to get you past the Brotherhood. Claim you were a prisoner, or—”

“As I said, I am dying.” He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Cancer. I have already been told by my finest staff that there is nothing that can be done. Leaving with you would only prolong my suffering. And...I cannot go to...I don’t want…”

“You’re afraid of the outside world.”

Shaun nodded, and Quinn felt her heart break. There was nothing to be done. She couldn’t stay, as much as she wanted to. But the idea of leaving him to die alone in this godforsaken place was too much. She bowed her head, suffocating in her misery as she dug her nails into her hands, trying to stop herself falling over the edge.

“I can’t just _leave_ you here!” she gasped, the tears now flowing freely. Shaun finally opened his eyes as he looked at her, alarmed, but quickly recovered himself.

“This is of your own making,” he replied coolly. “Go.”

Quinn didn’t move. It was wrong. It all felt so _wrong._ She glanced down at her Pip-Boy and knew what she had to do.

Quinn opened the holotape compartment, removed Nate’s precious recording, and handed it to Shaun.

He stared at it, frowning. “This is…?”

“Yes.”

“But...?”

“I can’t be with you until the end.” Quinn sniffed. “But your father can. It’s what he would have wanted. It’s what I want, too. So please, take it.”

“This is precious to you.”

She gave a small nod, but didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. She was afraid she might crumble if she did.

Shaun held it out to her. “Put it in my terminal. I can control it from here.”

Quinn obeyed, his skin warm and worn as they briefly brushed hands. She walked over to his computer and inserted the tape, before going over the options. There was an evacuation order on it.

“Shaun…”

“Yes?”

“The Brotherhood...they have control of the teleporter. And they have some of your staff as well. They tried to kill them, but I intervened. I think Maxson is going to interrogate them, though...and after that, I don’t know. Is there a way to evacuate the rest of your people entirely without them falling into the Brotherhood’s hands?”

“Why would you tell me this?”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone I don’t have to. They’re scientists, not soldiers. They don’t pose a threat. They don’t need to die.”

There was a long pause. Eventually, he said, “You continue to surprise me, Mother.”

Mother. He had called her mother.

Without thinking, Quinn reached out to him, wanting to touch him. To hold her son. Shaun recoiled from her, wearing a look of uncertainty, and Quinn let her arms drop. Of _course_ there were still boundaries. His rejection stung.

“There is more than one teleporter in this facility,” he continued, glossing over the awkward moment. “We need to let them know that particular exit point is off-limits. That way they can escape.”

Quinn listened as Shaun carefully explained how to change the evacuation instructions, trusting that he wasn’t leading her into some sort of deadly trap. After all, he had nothing to lose. When she had finished his orders, the usual female voice began to speak.

_“Attention all personnel. Evacuate the facility immediately. Platform YB-06 has been compromised. Please use alternative evacuation points if this affects your evacuation route. Attention all personnel. Evacuate...”_

Quinn felt a stab of relief. With any luck, most of them would get away. She could argue for the ones Maxson had captured later. Quinn returned to the terminal and deactivated the lockdown that had been put in place.

Ingram’s voice rang out over the intercom. _“Well done, Paladin. Looks like a path should be clear to the reactor. And I am happy to report that reinforcements have arrived.”_

Quinn leaned over the terminal and sighed.

“You really don’t want to be here, do you?” Shaun asked from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder and saw he had turned around to face her. Quinn shook her head. “No.”

Shaun studied her for a moment. Then he said, “Use the access code 9003. It will disable some of the synths.”

Quinn blinked at him, but followed his directions again. The option to disable the synth units suddenly came up, no longer hidden in the system. She clicked it, and a message flashed to confirm completion.

Stepping away from the terminal, Quinn walked back to him, twisting her hands together. She was confused. Why was he helping her?

“Thank you,” she said, meeting his eye again. He was wearing a strange expression.

“You need to go,” he replied. “Just...leave me.”

“I love you, Shaun.”

“I...I believe you.”

That was as good as she was going to get. But it was enough. He understood. He _knew._

Quinn got back into her power armour and left the room. As she walked past a deactivated synth standing still in the corridor, she heard the terminal whir to life. The recording she could recite from memory began to play.

_“Oops, haha. Keep those little fingers away…. Ah, there we go. Just say it, right there. Right there, go ahead. Ah, yay! Hi honey…”_

* * *

The chaos returned with Quinn. As she made her way back into the main plaza, laserfire filled the air, synths pouring out of the now opened door into the Advanced Systems sector. But not as many as the first attack. It seemed Shaun had been as good as his word.

Bantios was still with Casey. It was a bad sign she hadn’t been moved with the rest of the injured. That meant she wasn’t stable enough. Quinn kept an eye on them both throughout the duration of the fight, killing anything that got too close. Carson also remained near, almost fanatical in his efforts to stop Bantios being disturbed. When the last of the enemies had been dealt with, Carson exited his armour again and returned to Casey’s side.

Quinn bit her lip, glancing to the Advanced Systems entrance. The emptiness inside of her was being prickled by fear. They were moving out soon, and she would need Carson with her.

Carson sat in silence, following Bantios’ instructions to the letter. On and on the scribe toiled, burning through stimpaks and med-x and God knows what else. Even from this distance, Quinn could see the frantic desperation in his eyes, and knew he was thinking of Núñez.

Finally, Carson put his hand on Bantios’ arm. “Stop.”

Bantios shook his head. “No. She saved me. I have to help her. She has to live.”

“You aren’t doing her a kindness by dragging this out.” Carson stared down at Casey’s ruined face. His skin was ashy, his eyes watery as he blinked repeatedly, a muscle jumping in his tense jaw. “I’d give anything for…just stop. Please.”

Bantios said nothing. Carson took hold of Casey’s hand, pressed his lips to her fingers, and then laid her hand across her body. He observed the unsteady rise and fall of her chest, before getting to his feet and walking over to Quinn.

“I can’t watch her die,” he mumbled, answering her unspoken question. “Let’s get this over with.” He clambered into his armour without another word.

Bantios didn’t leave Casey immediately, pumping her full of stimpaks and other chems with a frown on his face. Finally, though, he stood up. But instead of joining them, he stopped Haylen, saying something to her that Quinn couldn’t hear. Haylen’s brow furrowed, but she nodded and clapped a hand on his shoulder, passing him her pistol. Bantios stowed it away in his uniform and jogged over to Quinn.

“Requesting permission to join you in the reactor, ma’am.”

“Granted.” Quinn still didn’t like the idea of him tagging along, but with Casey on her way out, they were down a scribe. He didn’t smile this time, silently falling in rank with her team.

Unlike the duration of the first few fights, the Institute suddenly felt empty. Weapons were scattered everywhere, science equipment abandoned mid-experiment. Deactivated synths stood vigil around the desolate halls, their heads bowed, their arms limp. The evacuation notice had worked.

They moved through a room filled with giant yellow tanks full of liquid, and Quinn recognised it as the area she had found Doctor Li. The area she had first spoken to the synth of Shaun. Her skin prickled with...what? Apprehension? Hope? She didn’t know. But the child was not there. Would he die down here? Had he been left behind too, deactivated and forgotten? Or had the scientists deemed him human enough to take with them? Somehow, Quinn doubted it.

Her head was swimming again. She stopped in the middle of the hallway, swaying on the spot. How could she do this? Kill her son. How could she…?

“Quinn?”

Someone shook her and the haze cleared slightly. She turned her head to see Carson, and though he was wearing his helmet, the concern in his voice was loud and clear. His hand was clamped on her shoulder, and after a second she realised she was leaning into him.

Rachel and Bantios were at the end of the corridor, watching her with grave expressions. Thankfully, Maxson and his entourage had already gone on ahead.

“One last push, Quinn,” Carson said. “One last push and it’s over. You can do this. _Come on.”_

Quinn stepped forward unsteadily, grasping out to her friend to stay upright. Carson took hold of her elbow and helped her walk, continuing his mutterings until the tremors ceased and the moment passed. Whatever happened, Shaun was going to die. She had known this from the moment she’d given Maxson the Institute data. And if it had to be done, then she should be the one. Her child. Her responsibility.

Quinn straightened up, gently shaking Carson off. “Let’s go.”

They caught up with Maxson in the entrance to the reactor. It was a far cry from Advanced Systems. Dirty and rough, it reminded her of the Old Robotics section. Exposed pipes lined the walls, steam hissing out from gaps in the metal, and all the machinery was covered in a thick layer of grime, oil, and grease.

The reactor was supposed to be the most important thing in the Institute—it had been referenced numerous times in the terminals she had wormed her way into. Why then was it in such a state of disrepair?

Sirens raged on as oranges lights flashed across Quinn’s vision, dazzling her. Turrets in the ceiling opened fire, their lasers simply bouncing of Quinn and Carson’s armour while Bantios and Rachel took cover behind them. A few rounds from Quinn’s combat rifle later, and they were in pieces.

As Quinn progressed deeper into the reactor, things became familiar. Old consoles that wouldn’t look out of place in a wasteland factory. Pre-war safety posters plastered everywhere. Coffee cups and tool boxes. Even a battered clock on the wall, its hand forever frozen at quarter to ten.

“This must be the oldest part of the Institute,” Quinn murmured, peering through the grimy window to the reactor below. It certainly looked like a product of her time, so different from the clean, sleek decor of the main facility. The reactor was bulky and tarnished, though clearly maintained regularly, blue light flickering from the glass panels at its door. The core of the Institute, and the foundation on which the strife of the Commonwealth had been built.

Quinn moved on. Elder Maxson walked next to her, the others marching behind. She wished he wasn’t here. She would have much preferred Carson or Rachel at her side. But when they entered the main reactor room, Quinn quickly retracted her wish as a jet of flame engulfed them. Maxson only just got out of the way, the tips of his beard on fire. Better him than one of her friends.

Again, there was a distinct lack of humans in the area. But even though most of the synths had been deactivated, some still remained. Quinn gave out a yell as fire surrounded her, and she barrelled forward, barging into a synth holding a flamethrower and sending it flying.

These synths looked odd. They wore a mixture of white and black, their faces covered by dark masks. Not coursers. Not standard units. Something...different.

The battle that followed was the fiercest yet. Only three of these strange synths alongside a pack of the usual, and yet they seemed to shrug off the damage. The normal synths went down quickly, but the three… Even Maxson looked worried.

_Pain._

Quinn screamed as something white hot pierced her back, sending waves of agony shooting through her body. The HUD in her armour was going haywire, flashing overload warnings from her fusion core port. She stumbled forward and turned to see one of the strange synths with a shock baton, advancing on her.

She knew all too well that an overload would cause the fusion core to explode. That in itself would kill her, but she was carrying the damn pulse charges. They were supposed to be put directly on the Institute’s power source, but if they detonated because of her armour, they could possibly set off the reactor anyway.

“Sto—” she began, trying to warn them, but one of the others must have been lurking behind her. Quinn felt the pain again as another shock baton was jammed into the port. The warnings flashed up again as her circuitry fried, informing at her that detonation was imminent.

Then it suddenly stopped. Quinn hit the release from inside her suit, and was relieved to find it still worked. She tumbled out onto the ground, her body stinging in the aftermath, and rolled over to see that Bantios had jumped onto the synth’s back. He was hitting it with everything he had and even managed to remove its helmet, exposing its head. Oddly enough, the synth seemed to be having difficulty pulling him off.

Quinn glanced behind her to see the other two synths hadn’t noticed she was now vulnerable. One was receiving a beating from Rachel Marguerie, who appeared to be letting out her anger over Casey with her fists rather than using her weapons, and Carson and Maxson had the last cornered.

A strangled yell dragged her attention back to Bantios. Quinn turned to see the synth drive a concealed blade into his stomach, penetrating his scribe’s armour as if it were nothing but cloth.

Bantios’ eyes bulged, each following stab causing him to convulse and groan. But instead of trying to pull away, his hand reached into his robes, producing the gun Haylen had given him. Gasping horribly, Bantios pushed the barrel again the synth’s temple and pulled the trigger. Both of them crashed to the ground—one still, the other twitching.

“David!” Quinn dragged herself across the floor, her limbs still tingling with pain, and reached him. Grabbing his robes, she rolled him onto his back and shook him. Bantios continued to stare blankly at the ceiling above, red slowly oozing from his mouth.

“No. No, no, no! Fuck!” Quinn reeled away from him. His blood was everywhere. It covered his uniform, his skin, her _hands…_

Quinn wiped it away on the dusty floor, ignoring the sounds of battle just feet away from her. First Casey, then Bantios. Another one. She had known this was a bad idea, and yet she’d let him come along anyway.

She thought of Danse. That first night in Piper’s when he had told her about the fate of his squad.

_“Each one of them died because of decisions that I made.”_

Wasn’t that the damn truth? But at the same time, if Bantios hadn’t been there, she might have been killed herself, along with every Brotherhood member still in the facility.  That fact hurt her more than anything else. Bantios thought he’d failed everyone he’d tried to help, when in fact he’d just saved them all. And he’d never know it.

“Ah, fuck.”

Quinn looked up to see Carson standing over her, Maxson not far behind him. The knight’s reaction echoed her own.

“Fucking shitting _fuck!”_ Carson strode off and kicked a dead synth on the floor hard in the head. There was a crack as its mask split.

“How did it happen?” Rachel asked, appearing at Maxson’s side. “I was...preoccupied.”

That was one way of putting it. Rachel’s knuckles were swollen and bleeding. Quinn wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of them was broken.

She explained in a monotone voice and then held her hand out to Rachel. “My legs are having a bit of difficulty at the moment.”

Rachel took the hint and pulled Quinn to her feet. She dusted herself down and glanced at Bantios again, before turning to see Carson stomping back towards them, taking deep breaths through his nose. When he calmed down, Quinn spoke again.

“You got it out of your system?”

Carson gave a slow nod. “Sorry, ma’am.” He glanced at Maxson. “Sir. Just...he’s only a kid. And I was hoping we wouldn’t lose anymore scribes today.”

Quinn knew he was downplaying what he really felt. He let his emotions run away with him at the best of times, but with Casey’s condition obviously on his mind, it was amplifying everything. Not that she thought Carson didn’t care about Bantios’ death—he would care regardless. But right now, it was rubbing salt in the wound.

Maxson seemed to think so, too. He kept uncharacteristically quiet.

“Carry him out,” Quinn said to Carson, feeling cold as she pointed to the scribe. “We’d be dead without him.”

Carson nodded and picked Bantios’ body up. He looked small and frail in the knight’s arms. Maxson stared at him for a moment as if he was going to say something, but then apparently thought better of it.

He turned to Quinn, taking refuge in the mission. “Codes to open the reactor. The honour is yours, Paladin.”

There was that ‘honour’ again. Honour of reactivating a war machine. Honour of destruction. Quinn wanted nothing to do with the Brotherhood’s idea of honour. She took the codes without a word and walked over to the reactor, making her way through the terminal. The door slid open without ceremony, and Quinn returned to her armour, removing the pulse charges from it.

“I’ll have to leave my suit behind,” Quinn said over her shoulder as she strode back to the reactor. She felt a stab of regret at this. The armour had been with her since she’d first joined the Brotherhood. Danse himself had tinkered with it for her. “The shock batons have ruined it from the inside out.”

“A pity,” replied Maxson. “We’ll issue you with a new set when we return to the Prydwen, Paladin.”

 _Don’t bother,_ she thought to herself, but didn’t respond.

The reactor was spherical inside, the walls curving around a central pillar. Quinn followed the handwritten instructions on the charges and managed to attach them to the metal surface, before setting it up for detonation. Once it was primed, she stepped out of the reactor and returned to the terminal, using the codes to seal the door. She looked at Maxson and nodded.

He smiled. “Good work, Paladin. I think it’s time to leave this place to its fate.” Maxson glanced up at the ceiling. “Proctor Ingram, do you copy? Our mission is complete. I need you to transport us out of here immediately.”

Quinn frowned. How the hell was Ingram supposed to—?

Her thoughts were cut short as the strange feeling needled through her, before the light swept her away.

* * *

Quinn staggered as the teleporter deposited her back in the entrance of the Institute. She clutched a hand to her head, nausea rippling in her stomach, when she saw a figure that rooted her to the spot.

It was something. It was _selfish._

It was Shaun.

No...not Shaun. His synth. Down the corridor, standing next to a perplexed Ingram, was the boy. Quinn heard Maxson say something, but his words were muted, the buzzing in her ears drowning everything out. Ingram’s response was a little clearer.

“...he claims to be the paladin’s son, sir.”

Quinn’s breath was quickening, so sharp and shallow she could feel the dizziness creeping in. The boy was staring at her, his eyes wide with fear and...and something else. And Quinn could feel a peculiarity growing within her tight chest. Confusion, mingled with hurt.

This child was not the real Shaun, could never replace him. But he didn’t have to _be_ a replacement. All he needed was a parent. Whatever Shaun’s intentions had been in creating this synth, Quinn knew she could do that—not just for the boy, but for Shaun too.

The child bit his lip. “Mom?”

That did it. Quinn dropped her weapon and sprinted down the corridor, shoving Maxson aside as he tried to get in her way. She threw herself onto the boy—onto _Shaun_ —and dragged him into a hug. She couldn’t understand her feelings, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve to die here, and the desire to protect him burned within her, to make him her own. Shaun had been her responsibility. This boy would be her responsibility as well. Completely. Gladly.

It took a good few minutes before anyone could convince Quinn to let go of the new Shaun. She was downright hysterical, rocking him in her arms as she cried out all of her grief. For what had happened. For what _would_ happen. The end was in sight, but the last battle had sapped her of all her strength. She had nothing left to give.

Only Carson’s gentle touch and soft words eventually made Quinn relax her grip and let go. He promised he would look after Shaun if she chose to carry on. If there was one person she could trust, it was Carson. Even if he somehow found out the truth, he’d never hurt the child.

Rachel, meanwhile, was stood behind Carson, frowning. She cast her gaze from Quinn to the synth Shaun, and then back again. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, and then a few minutes later her expression cleared and she stepped out of sight.

Almost gingerly, Maxson approached. Quinn had never seen the man in a state so tentative in his life, and for a second she wondered if he was channelling Bantios’ ghost. This thought immediately brought a stab of shame, and she looked around to see his body had been laid carefully on the floor. However, a few seconds later, Rachel came into view, picking him up and cradling him in her arms. Quinn smiled gratefully at her, and Rachel smiled back with a small nod.

“Paladin…Quinn.” Maxson crouched down to Quinn’s level, and she could help but notice that he appeared worried, as well as a little confused. A groggy thought crossed her mind—was the confusion because his own parents had never shown much love?

The Elder paused, and then sighed. “Bringing you here has been incredibly selfish of me. I assumed for the final push you would relish at the chance of vengeance, but I never considered that…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “This must have been an ordeal for you. Though I am glad to see the Institute lied about the fate of your son. If you want to leave, then…”

“No,” Quinn said at once.

Maxson blinked in surprise. “You are not obligated to stay, Paladin. You have more than done your duty today.”

“I _am_ obligated to stay, sir. They hurt my family.” She thought of Shaun—the original Shaun—alone with his father’s holotape, and felt a lump in her throat. “They are still hurting my family. I am seeing this through to the end.”

Maxson studied her for an age and then gave a slow, slight incline of his head. He straightened up and offered her a hand. Quinn took it and he helped her stand.

“Ad victoriam, Paladin.”

Quinn didn’t respond, her mind drifting. Everything became distant as he reeled off his instructions, and she shuffled forward, bending down to kiss the synth—her son—on his head.

“Stay with Carson,” Quinn mumbled. “He’ll look after you.”

Shaun gave a faint smile. “Okay, mom. I love you.”

Quinn’s breath caught in her throat. Did she love him? “I…”

Thankfully, she was spared the upset as Ingram’s voice cut across the gathering.

“Step back, ma’am. Teleporting you now.”

Quinn quickly obeyed, and within seconds the light engulfed her, taking her soaring through the atmosphere.

* * *

From the top of the Mass Fusion building, Boston greeted Quinn once again, splayed out in front of her like an old, dying friend. It teemed with invisible life, above and below, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever be rebuilt. Probably not.

In front of her was the dreaded mechanism, its button primed and waiting. Behind her, Maxson wittered on, all business again, like he was hastily trying to cover up the glimmer of compassion he had shown her.

“Proctor Ingram has assured me we’ll be outside the blast radius.” He paused, and Quinn knew he was about to give some sort of practiced speech. She was right.

“Press that button and you not only defeat our enemy, you restore order and decency to the Commonwealth. It’s time, Paladin. The Institute and their synth abominations must be eradicated.”

Quinn ignored him. She continued to stare at the dead city with its parasitic inhabitants. The wind that was whipping through the air was suddenly very cold on her face. She knew what she was doing. Every second she delayed was a second longer in Shaun’s life.

“Paladin?”

“I need a moment. My son...my husband. Everything. This is just…” Quinn squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them. It was time.

Her hand hovered over the button as she stared at it. Drops of water pattered onto its rusted surface, and she realised tears were streaming down her cheeks. Quinn placed her thumb over the device and looked up towards the Institute.

She pressed it.

A huge white glow bloomed from nowhere, and then the ground shook as an explosion rocketed up in the sky, flame and dust and debris swirling like hellfire unleashed. Quinn closed her eyes, feeling the rush of heat whip through the atmosphere. Her knees buckled as the blast reached them, and she clung to the platform, barely feeling the hands grasping at her.

She was back. Shaun crying in Nate’s arms, Boston burning in the distance, the floor lowering them into their final resting place: Vault 111. She was choking on her fear, waiting for her death. Her son. Oh, her _son._

The darkness of the vault swallowed her.

* * *

Nate smiled as he waved to Quinn from the living room window. She gave him a death glare and stomped off down the street. He waited until she’d disappeared from sight, and then hurried towards Shaun’s room, chuckling to himself. She was still angry that even after Codsworth had been fixed, he hadn’t returned her Islay to her. But as he’d said, why? She hadn’t fixed the robot for him. He’d had to call in a repair technician himself.

Fair punishment.

Nate picked Shaun up out of his cot and kissed the top of his head. “Hey, champ. Wanna help me do something nice for your mom?”

Shaun gurgled and grabbed hold of Nate’s finger, putting it in his mouth.

Nate laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He carried Shaun out to the shed—his _man_ shed, a very important distinction from regular sheds, as he kept telling Quinn. The insistence usually earned him an eye roll. But it was the only place she wouldn’t hide his socks and screwdriver from him, and so the only place he could hide things from _her._ Well, except from the secret safe where he’d put her whisky. But that was an exceptional circumstance.

Sitting down on his stool, Nate shifted his hold on Shaun and picked up a holotape recorder he’d recently purchased. He showed it to Shaun, who immediately surrendered Nate’s fingers and put the recorder in his mouth instead.

“We’re gonna record a nice message for your mom,” he said, watching Shaun dribble away on the plastic casing. “So that when I give her the whisky back, she won’t divorce me. Good plan?”

Shaun made a babbling noise.

“Glad you agree, little man.”

Carefully, he edged the recorder out from Shaun’s grasp, distracting him so he wouldn’t cry, and then turned it on. Straight away, Shaun made a grab for it, and Nate nearly dropped it. “Oops!” He laughed and Shaun took hold of his sleeve cuff and started trying to chew that. Nate smiled as he said, “Keep those little fingers away…”

He hadn’t exactly planned what he was going to say in his holotape, and yet it all seemed to flow together naturally. How much he loved Quinn, what a wonderful mother she was, and his excitement for the future.

It was all true. Things would be hard, but so long as he had his family, he would be fine. Quinn had taught him that. He bounced Shaun on his knee, feeling a rush of love for his son. "Now say goodbye, Shaun. Bye bye. Say bye bye!”

Shaun gurgled again, and Nate grinned.

_“Bye, honey. We love you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning!
> 
> So today is a monumental day for this fic! Aside from a few canon dialogue pieces from the aftermath of the game, this is it. We’ve reached the end of established Fallout 4 canon.
> 
> I finally have free reign over the story. I am so damn excited. What about you?
> 
> (also, 300,000 word landmark! Christ.)


	58. The Wolf shall Dwell

_Rough hands grab and pinch as her body drags through coarse earth. She trails on the edge of consciousness—_

No. No, that had been the church. There was no blood this time, and she would not be carried from battle again.

Quinn pushed away the grasping fingers and dragged herself up, breathing heavily from her nose. Her son was dead, and she was crumbling inside. Ignoring Maxson, Quinn turned and walked towards the vertibird that was waiting at the edge of the Mass Fusion building. For a brief moment she considered striding past it and letting herself drop. But then she clambered aboard, settling herself into the nearest seat.

Maxson followed, frowning as he sat opposite her. “Are you alright, Paladin?”

“Fine, sir.”

He looked unconvinced but didn't push the subject. She was grateful for that.

The air was hot and dry, and Quinn’s ears buzzed from the blast. Grit swirled as the aircraft took off, leaving the city far behind. She wondered how many wandering the streets of Boston had been caught in the explosion, how many innocent scavengers and lost children and travelling peddlers had been wiped out.

The image of the bomb that ended her world was burned into her mind, its mushroom cloud reaching up into the sky, staining the atmosphere red. Now she could claim her place amongst those short-sighted leaders, the wasteland their nameless legacy.

Quinn leaned forward, holding herself. She hoped it had been quick for Shaun. She hoped Nate had been with him until the end.

Her state of hazed shock clung on like dust and spider webs until the vertibird docked at the Prydwen. She stood up, clutching at the aircraft to disguise the sway in her step, and lowered herself onto the deck. Both Rachel and Carson were waiting for her, the knight-sergeant wearing a strange expression. Quinn had seen it before, but she couldn’t understand why it was here now. She had done nothing to warrant Rachel’s suspicion.

“Where’s Bantios?” Quinn asked, deciding to leave Rachel’s odd mood for another time.

“With the rest of the dead,” Rachel replied, her features softening. “After that evacuation notice, the troops that didn’t go with us to the reactor had breathing space to collect the fallen. We managed to bring most of them home.”

“Good.” Quinn turned to Carson, and then realised who was missing. Her stomach dropped. “Shaun?”

“He’s with Cade—” Carson began, but Quinn shoved past him, suddenly in a panic. What would they do? Synth tests? Experiment on him? Kill him?

She ran through the ship, tripping over her own feet, causing people to stop and stare. Quinn ignored them all, so terrified she couldn’t breathe. Where was he? Where was Shaun?

She found him just as Carson said—sitting on a medical gurney in the sickbay, Cade perched on his desk with a clipboard in hand. They both glanced up as she burst into the room. Cade watched her for a split second while she stood in the doorway, panting, and then got to his feet. He put his hand in his pocket, and Quinn leaped forward, wrenching it out.

“Don’t you—!”

She stopped. Clutched between his fingers was a dull red lollipop. She looked at Cade to see he was staring with one eyebrow raised. Still, Quinn didn’t let go of him.

“He’s been in the Institute,” she said, her fingers digging in tight as she invented an excuse on the spot. “He can’t eat that. It’s not clean. It’ll make him sick, it’ll—”

“I know,” Cade said calmly, not trying to pull away. “Which is why I’ve been giving him his shots.”

Quinn blinked. “His...his shots?”

“That’s right. Everything he needs to bring his immune system up to scratch. Or, in other words...a standard stimpak.”

In a world filled with mutants and ghouls, this shouldn’t have been the most surprising thing she’d heard, and yet it _was._ “They can do that?”

Cade nodded. “An unintended—but beneficial—side effect. Have you never noticed that no one in the wasteland gets the diseases common from your time? You would have been especially vulnerable to it, and yet here you are, healthy.”

“I...I had wondered…” Quinn shrugged. “But with everything else going on, I didn't give it much thought. I just thought I was lucky, or that the nukes had wiped out all the germs in the area for good.”

Cade chuckled. “Disease is one of the few constants in life, as is death. Thankfully, I can postpone both.” He looked down at his arm. “Would you mind…?”

Quinn finally let go of him, flushing. “Sorry.”

“With everything you’ve gone through today, I think social etiquette is the least of your worries.” Cade passed the lollipop to Shaun, who took it without speaking, his wide, frightened eyes fixed on Quinn. The doctor leaned against his desk, considering her. “I won’t put you through any evaluations today, but I’d like a chat when you’ve had time to settle down with your boy. I’m sure finding him today was a great shock...in the best possible way.”

Quinn gave a muted nod, avoiding looking at Shaun. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“I also have a few injured to tend to,” Cade continued, straightening up. “Not as many as the church, thankfully.” He paused. “It seems lessons were learned from that fiasco.”

He gave her a pointed look, and she took his meaning. Elder Maxson had not made the same mistake twice. Better prepared. Better equipped. Better led. Was that why he had gone into battle directly after all?

Quinn didn’t care. She reached out and took hold of Shaun. His small hand fit snugly in her own.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

Cade smiled, leading her from the room as he picked up a few pieces of equipment and stuffed them into a bag. “Anytime, ma’am.” He inclined his head and left, striding up the stairs to the dormitory above.

Quinn turned to see her friends waiting for her. Carson looked worried, while Rachel was carefully blank. Her eyes slid down briefly to look at Shaun, before flicking back to Quinn.

“Ma’am.”

Quinn pulled Shaun close. She didn’t know what Rachel was thinking, but she didn’t like her demeanour.

Carson seemed oblivious to the silent standoff. “You alright, Quinn?”

Quinn tore her gaze from Rachel and forced a smile. “Yeah. Just...I panicked a bit. Don’t want him out of my sight, y’know?”

“We know,” said Rachel. She was smiling herself now, her face suddenly warm. Quinn frowned. What the hell was going on?

She decided not to dwell on it as the four of them walked back through the ship. The injured were already laid out on the upper walkways, the same as before. But Cade was right—there were considerably fewer than last time. _This time_ Maxson had waited for everything to be in place before sending his soldiers to war.

“Ma’am!” came a voice from those very walkways.

Quinn looked up to see Haylen leaning over the railings. Despite the grazes, burns, and deep shadows under her eyes, she was smiling. She beckoned Quinn to her as she said, “I think you should all see this.” She disappeared from view.

The three adults glanced at each other, and Quinn became aware of Shaun’s hand in her own again. Whatever was up there, he shouldn’t be exposed to it. He wasn't corrupted by the horrors of the wasteland yet.

Rachel seemed to sense Quinn’s reluctance, because she said, “I’ll look after him if you want.”

“No,” Quinn replied quickly. Rachel blinked at her, and Quinn offered an apologetic grin. “Like I said, I don’t want to let him out of my sight for the moment if I can help it. He’ll just have to come with us.”

Rachel shrugged and walked off towards the stairs. Carson threw Quinn a confused look, before following the knight-sergeant. Quinn hated the thought of what Shaun might see, but still trailed after them. She couldn’t say why she didn’t want to leave Shaun alone with Rachel, but there was a deep, nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach—a warning that something was amiss. The Prydwen was a lion’s den, and Shaun a lamb, protected only by Quinn’s presence. One false move, one wrong word, and they would both be torn apart.

Quinn kept a tight grip on him as they made their way through the rows of beds, each one holding a person in its sheets. To her greatest shock, some of them were wearing Institute uniforms. These patients were heavily guarded.

“We can’t interrogate them if they’re dead,” Haylen explained, answering Quinn’s unspoken question. The scribe looked disapproving, but whether that was because the Brotherhood were patching the scientists up or planning to squeeze information out of them, Quinn was unsure. The thought was quickly driven out of her head, however, as they reached the last bed.

The occupant was heavily bandaged and in a bad condition. But even with all the layers of gauze and salve, Quinn recognised her straight away.

“Case,” Carson whispered, stopping so suddenly Rachel walked into him. He barely noticed, striding to Casey’s bedside and dropping to his knees. He gripped at the sheets that covered her burned body, his fists trembling as he bit his lip.

Quinn was stunned. She stared at Casey for an age, taking in every detail. She looked on the edge of death, the visible patches of skin raw and peeling, the rest covered in the strange burn gel of Cade’s making. But despite her appearance, her breathing was strong and steady—the opposite of when she was in the Institute.

“How?” Rachel asked, looking as dumbfounded as Quinn felt.

“That young scribe asked me to look after her before he went with you to the reactor,” Haylen said, rubbing her eyes with her hand. “Said he’d done everything he could, but his efforts needed to be maintained.” She paused, looking down at Casey. “He did a real good job of it. A lot of promise, that kid. Shame he…”

A heavy silence fell over the gathering. Quinn took the moment to glance at Shaun. Far from being upset, he was looking at Casey with childish curiosity.

“Is she going to live?” Carson asked after a while, his eyes fixed on Casey.

“Uncertain to say for now, but Cade thinks she has a fair chance. Bantios gave her the best odds she’s going to get. So long as she stays this stable, it’s likely she’ll pull through...but she’ll never see out of that eye again. It’s completely gone.”

“I’m sure she’ll work her way around the issue,” Carson muttered.

“Scribe Haylen,” came a voice from behind them. The group looked to see another scribe with a clipboard in hand. Quinn immediately thought of Bantios.

“Right, right…” Haylen sighed. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to assist bringing in a fresh batch of medicine.”

“I’ll help,” Carson said, trying to get to his feet. At once, Rachel clamped her hand on his shoulder and forced him back to the ground.

“Stay where you are,” she said. “Your place is here. Besides, you can’t lift for shit.”

He didn’t argue with her, and the knight-sergeant left alongside Haylen without another word, leaving Quinn and Carson alone. Before Quinn could think of anything to say to comfort her friend, someone shouted his name.

_“Liam! Liam!”_

Kapraski, leaning heavily on a bent crutch, tottered down the walkway as fast as his leg would carry him. His pale face was flushed, his eyes wide as his free arm reached out. The crutch jammed in the metal slats and he lost his balance. But Carson was already on his feet, and he caught Kapraski in his arms, holding him tight. Kapraski dropped his crutch with a clatter and clung onto Carson, burying his head in his shoulder.

“I thought I wouldn’t see you again. I thought you ended up like Casey. I thought... _I thought…”_

“I’m here. I’m here, Tom. I’m alright.”

Kapraski pulled away long enough to kiss Carson, before returning to his shoulder.

“Mom?” Shaun was looking up at her, confused. “Why are they…?”

“Shh,” Quinn said, shaking her head. “I’ll explain later.” She led him away, back down the stairs and towards her room. Odd that he’d never seen something like that before, but then she supposed the Institute had been more of a workplace than a home.

“Mom,” Shaun said again. “I still don’t understand. Why were they hugging...and kissing?”

Quinn groaned. He clearly wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “Because they’re together.”

“Together?”

“Like…” God, why was something so simple this difficult to explain to a child? It shouldn’t be. Quinn threw caution to the wind. This was the wasteland after all, and most people didn’t give a shit anymore about that kind of thing anymore. “Like boyfriend and girlfriend, except they’re boyfriend and boyfriend. They love each other very much.”

“Like you and dad did?”

Quinn felt a lump in her throat at the thought of Nate and the original Shaun. She forced a smile. “Yeah, like me and...your dad.”

“Oh.” Shaun considered the concept for a moment, and then shrugged. “Okay.” He paused, looking at the lollipop in his hand. “Can I eat this now?”

“Sure.”

Shaun opened the lollipop and didn’t speak again for the rest of the walk back. Even when they were inside Quinn’s room, he just sat on the bed, swinging his legs while he sucked noisily on his candy.

Quinn stood in the corner, lost in her thoughts. There was something about the boy that still made her feel uncomfortable, even though she had made the choice to take him with her. Not his fault, of course, and something she would have to get over. But what if she _didn’t?_ What if she became like Rachel instead? Had she been completely selfish in her decision to save him?

“Mom?”

Shaun’s voice snapped her from her deep thoughts. She looked up to see him cross-legged on her bed, the lollipop stick in his hand as he chewed his lip. Quinn bit back a sigh. “Yes, Shaun?”

“I don’t understand why you blew it all up.”

“Blew what up?” Quinn said, though she knew damn well what. Her insides churned as she waited for the inevitable.

“The Institute. They were like a family to me.”

_Family._ Her mouth fell open as a cold feeling rushed through her. Everything the original Shaun had been denied. _Family._ Did this mean love and care? Or the basic necessities to ensure this Shaun was happy? She tried to think of something to say, when Shaun continued.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, wiping his eyes and giving her a nervous look. “Just...so long as you don’t leave me.”

Quinn shook her head. “I won’t leave you.” She meant it, even though the very thought scared her. Why was she doing this?

Shaun paused, and then his eyes widened. “Oh! I forgot!” He jumped off the bed, stuck his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a new looking holotape. He handed it out to her, and Quinn took it. Shaun smiled. “Father told me to give this to you. I didn’t listen to it, so I dunno what it says, but...I think it’s important.”

“I’ll play it later.” She pocketed it, wondering whether to just burn it now. Hearing Shaun’s voice again might kill her.

There was a long silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Shaun?”

“Thanks for saving me.”

Quinn blinked at his earnest face, and felt the warm prickling in her heart again. “There was no other choice, honey.”

He grinned at her, and she found herself grinning back. She studied him for a moment, her maternal instinct kicking in. “When was the last time you slept? It’s been a long day.”

Shaun shrugged. “Dunno.”

“That’s not good enough. Bedtime for you, mister.”

“But _Mom—”_

“Don’t you ‘mom’ me. Get yourself to bed while I do some work. We’ll have plenty of time to sort out clothes and other things tomorrow. Sleep. _Now.”_

Shaun pouted but nodded before throwing himself onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and occasionally huffing as he shot glances at Quinn.

Quinn pretended not to notice and sat herself at her desk, pulling a yellowed piece of paper and an old pencil from one of the drawers. Last time, another officer wrote the letter home to Núñez’s family while Quinn had been laid up on a medical gurney. She’d only found out afterwards. It wouldn’t happen again. Her team. Her responsibility.

As she wrote, Danse’s team came to mind once more. All he’d lost, all the blame that he carried. Then she thought of Casey, and the chance given to her by David Bantios. Quinn made sure his mother knew exactly how many lives he had saved, in life and in death. Everyone. He saved _everyone._

She signed the letter, sealed it, and looked over at Shaun. He was fast asleep, the lollipop stick still clutched in his hand. Quinn moved over to him and pulled it free. She paused, bending over to brush a piece of hair from his face, before stopping herself. Even at this young age, she could see all of Nate’s features. His nose. His eyes. The image of the boy she’d seen in Kellogg’s memories.

But this child hadn't been made by her and Nate. Everything she recognised was put there by someone else. Had Shaun purposefully given the synth his own childhood face? Her vision blurred, blocking the synth from view, tears dripping down her cheeks.

_This isn't my son. My son is dead._

Reality crashed down around her as her legs buckled, sending her to the floor. Quinn held onto the bed frame for dear life, sobbing uncontrollably, not caring if she was noisy. Quinn still couldn't see, so when small, warm hands touched her arms, she flinched.

“Mom?”

Quinn tried to pull away, wipe her eyes, pretend she was fine. The small hands slipped around her neck, and she found herself crying harder, leaning back against the wall as she dragged the boy off the bed and into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry, mom,” Shaun said into her ear. “I won’t stay up late again, I promise. I’ll be good from now on.”

Quinn couldn’t speak. None of this was his fault. But whether the decision to save him had been self serving or not, it didn’t matter. He was her child now, and she already she was starting to love him. She wept as she kissed his cheeks, his little body pulled close to hers.

* * *

How long she cried for, Quinn didn’t know. All she remembered was waking up the next morning, her eyes stinging. Shaun snuggled against her, both of them propped up against the wall.

She stared at him for a while, not wanting to move and wake him up, when a knock on the door made him jump. Quinn glanced up as Shaun wriggled free, blushing a little. She got to her feet, wincing as her stiff joints ached. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Carson popped his head into the room. Maxson wanted to see her.

As it turned out, it was Maxson _and_ Kells. Between them, they gave her a long winded speech about their plans for the Commonwealth. Quinn gazed blankly at the two of them, barely paying attention. She must have looked a wreck, because Maxson was wearing a slight frown. Kells, on the other hand, seemed oblivious, and continued talking at her while Quinn stared at a point over his shoulder.

There was a pause, obviously meant for her response. Quinn made a guess at what Kells wanted to hear.

“Of course, sir,” she replied in a monotone voice. Maxson’s frown deepened.

“In light of your recent service,” he said, watching her carefully, “Captain Kells and I both feel you deserve unique recognition for your contributions, both past and future. It’s with great pleasure and the utmost respect that you are hereby granted the title of ‘sentinel.’ This is the highest honour a Brotherhood soldier can achieve, but we both felt strongly that it was well deserved.”

Quinn gave a muted nod as Kells began rattling on about a jetpack modification or something of the like. She didn’t listen to a word of it, only catching his congratulations at the end. Her lips ushered a thanks.

“So, Sentinel…” Maxson hesitated, and Quinn realised that he was _worried._ His eyes flicked to Kells, before quickly forcing a smile. He was going to cover for her. “For the first time since we’ve met, I have no orders for you. From this moment forward, you will decide which missions you undertake and how you will guide us.”

Was this really part of the role? Or was he just discreetly giving permission to distance herself from them?

“Captain Kells and the personnel at the Cambridge Police station still possess numerous operations for you to undertake. Where you go from here is up to you.” Maxson saluted her. “Ad victoriam, Sentinel.”

Quinn saluted back and mumbled a response before taking her leave. She had little to say to either of them. Promotions and jetpacks? She didn’t give a shit. Shaun was dead and the Brotherhood would be staying for the time being. No peace for her or Danse. But then again, had she really expected anything different?

Kells’ voice rang out over the intercom, relaying yet another victory speech. Quinn ignored it, walking back through the ship towards the workshop. She had left Shaun in her room and locked the door. No way in. No way out. She felt safe leaving him alone, but only for a little while. Already she was getting tense at not being with him, paranoid of what might happen if she wasn’t there to protect him.

As she walked across the ship, a voice cut through the air, as sharp as a whip.

“Well, it appears you got what you wanted.”

Quinn turned to see Doctor Li standing next to a series of consoles, her folded arms and ugly expression radiating anger. Quinn sighed, but after a quick glance to make sure the area was deserted, walked over. Better to get this over and done with.

Doctor Li’s scowl deepened. “The Institute’s destroyed and everyone up here thinks you’re a hero. At least you saved the boy.”

Quinn could feel her body sagging. This was an argument she wasn’t ready for, but she couldn’t back away now. “I didn’t want to destroy it. But it had to be done.”

“Just keep telling yourself that. I’ll bet it helps you sleep at night,” Li spat. She waited for Quinn to respond, and when greeted with silence, launched back into her rant. “The fact of the matter is, innocent people died because Elder Maxson had delusions of grandeur.”

“Yes, they did,” Quinn said dully, leaning back against the consoles in Li’s workspace and staring at her own feet. “But we managed to get most of them out.”

“To interrogate—!”

“No. Father showed me how to deactivate a majority of the synths, evacuate the facility, and add directions to avoid the teleporter that the Brotherhood guarded. By the time we stormed our way through, the place was deserted. Most of the casualties were our own soldiers at the hands of the coursers.”

She could feel the doctor’s shocked eyes boring into her, could hear the mumbles as her own words were repeated back to her.

“Father cooperated with you?” Li asked eventually. “Why? How?”

Quinn shut her eyes. “That’s my business. Not yours.”

Li clearly didn’t like her answer. “Why the hell should I believe you then? You’ve always been Maxson’s lapdog. Executing that synth paladin. Jumping at his every command. He kept preaching that the Institute was ‘playing God’ for creating the synths. Well, maybe he should take a look in the mirror, because he’s the only one I saw playing God.”

“And you helped him,” Quinn said slowly, opening her eyes and looking up at Li.

Again, stunned quiet. A bomb was about to drop.

“How dare you!” Doctor Li snapped, pointing a trembling finger at Quinn. “You know, I actually convinced myself that you were using Liberty Prime as leverage? That you were hoping for the Institute to surrender?”

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Quinn echoed in a flat voice. “I’ll bet it helps you sleep at night.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What else would it mean?”

“I thought you’d force the Institute surrender!” Doctor Li insisted again. “This is the second time I’ve let the Brotherhood betray me and I don’t intend for there to be a third! I’ve already told Proctor Ingram that I’m through working on Liberty Prime. I’m going to—”

Finally, Quinn lost her patience. Maybe Li was justified in her anger. Maybe she really had been unaware of Maxson’s intentions. But Quinn was beyond caring. The self-inflicted wound she had suffered was raw and deep, and any sympathy she might have felt for this deprecating doctor was washed away by overwhelming pain.

“You’re a fucking joke,” Quinn hissed, standing up so suddenly Li stepped back. “Or are you just wilfully ignorant? Everyone knows what Prime’s purpose was, before and after the war. How could you think Maxson would use that for anything _other_ than annihilation? There was no betrayal. You just don’t want to take responsibility for the thing you helped make.”

“You—” Doctor Li began. Quinn cut across her.

“But let me tell you,” she said quietly, “if I hear a whisper of a threat against Shaun, I’ll kill you myself. Is that understood?”

Li’s face was white, her lips thin as a muscle jumped in her cheek. She looked as if she had many things to say, but after a few seconds she replied, “I would never endanger that boy’s life.”

“Good. I hope it stays that way.” Quinn stormed past the doctor, but then an idea hit her. She strode back, shaking her head, and grabbed the front of Li’s uniform.

 Li struggled until Quinn pulled her close and spoke softly into her ear. _“You are the only person who can ensure Prime doesn’t outstay its welcome.”_

Quinn let go of her, her glare fierce in the wake of Li’s shocked expression.

“I...you…”

“I’ll tell Ingram that I’ve... _convinced_ you to return to the Liberty Prime project, then?” Quinn said in her hardest tone, so that the words would carry to the walkways.

Doctor Li said nothing for a moment, her mouth hanging open. Then it clamped shut, her eyes full of determined fury as she gave a sharp nod. “Yes. But from now on I suggest we stay out of each other’s way.” Her last words were said with a sneer. “Ad victoriam, _Sentinel.”_

Quinn marched off, her blood pounding through her ears as her legs shook. Using the banister to pull herself up the stairs, Quinn made it to the very top of the ship. Her place. Danse watching her cry, before softly saying her name, coaxing her to this cold, windy sanctuary.

How long ago had it been since she first came out here? She could almost see Danse standing there now, wary of her distress, but determined to nurse the wound anyway. The first time, Quinn had wrapped herself in Nate’s words. The second, she had found out she was burying him. Now she was reaching out to the ghost of Shaun.

Quinn walked over to the railings and leaned against them, the dizzying drop before her a strange comfort. Would she really care if the metal holding her life gave way?

The thought of Danse and what he would think of such an event brought a sickening sensation to her stomach. He had endured so much to keep on living—not for himself, but because he _knew_ she wanted him to stay. Quinn owed him that much in return.

With trembling fingers, she went to take Nate’s holotape out from her Pip-Boy, before she remembered it was long gone. Quinn bit her lip, swallowing her pain, and retrieved Shaun’s recording from her pocket instead, inserting it into the unoccupied Pip-Boy.

This recording was clearer than Nate’s, the crackle of age and damage absent. Shaun’s voice was unmistakeable.

_“If you are hearing this, then whatever conflicts you and I have endured are over, and the synth made it to you in time. A fair trade, as it were. A tape for a tape, though you never wanted anything in return._

_“I will keep him with me. Your husband. My...father. What a strange word to use for anyone other than myself. But I will play his tape until the end, as you asked. I must confess, it will be a relief. Is it childish to be scared of being alone?_

_“Maybe that’s why I sent him to you. Not just for his sake, but for yours. You showed me that we exceeded far past my expectations. We didn’t make them like humans. We made them human. And you care about him...about all of them in a way I never thought possible._

_“This synth...this boy. He deserves more. He has been reprogrammed to believe he is your son. It is my hope you will take him with you. I would only ask that you give him a chance. A chance to be part of whatever future awaits the Commonwealth._

_“But request or not, I think you will go above and beyond that. You won’t be alone. Neither will he. Neither will I.”_

The tape cut. Quinn didn’t move. She stood in the icy gale of the ship’s decks, too numb to cry. Her fingers clung to the rails as she stood in silence, Shaun’s final, haunting message burned into her brain. It didn’t matter if she kept this tape or not. She’d remember it for the rest of her life.

A loud clang sounded behind her, and Quinn smelled the smoke long before she saw the knight-sergeant. It filled her lungs, making her cough and splutter until a soft laugh made her turned around. Rachel was leaning on the railings, puffing slowly on her cigar.

“What?” Even in her muddled state, Quinn could hear her own defensive tone. Rachel’s stare was so damn uncomfortable.

The knight-sergeant didn’t speak at first, dragging on the cigar until smoke clouded around them, choking Quinn. Within seconds it had cleared, revealing Rachel’s cold, knowing smile, the jagged mirth not reaching her eyes.

“I have a question,” she said, her words deliberately drawled. “And try as I might, I can’t find the answer. Maybe you can shed some light on the problem for me?”

Quinn didn’t respond.

The grin widened, becoming wolfish in nature as it revealed Rachel’s yellow, smoke-stained teeth. “We were all very happy when you were reunited with your son.”

She paused.

“The only issue is...you said he was a man.” The smile faded as Rachel ran the tip of her tongue over her canines. “An old, old man. So who is this boy, Quinn? Where did he come from?” The forced grin returned. “I’d really like to hear the tale.”

“The Institute lied,” Quinn said, her voice wavering as she tried to control her panic. Did Rachel _know?_ “The man I met wasn’t my son.”

“And how did you find that out?”

“The Director told me.”

“Oh, the Director?” Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “The Director you _insisted_ facing alone. So why didn’t you go straight for your son then?”

“He…” Quinn swallowed, wrestling with the new lie. “The Director said he’d already activated the teleporters in the Institute and ordered them to take my son away. He had to stay behind to do that. Said I’d never find Shaun again...he…” She broke off, distress enveloping her. Her mind had gone blank, refusing to let her twist the tale any further.

Rachel puffed on her cigar. Her gaze was sharp and piercing, mulling over Quinn’s newest claim. Eventually, she straightened up, flicked her cigar stub over the railing, and nodded as she said, “Ma’am.”

Quinn staggered away, her heart in her throat. Rachel was seemingly appeased for now, but for how long? And who else shared her doubts? Her suspicions?

Quinn stumbled and nearly fell down the stairs as she rushed back to her quarters, only to find the door ajar.

_Oh God. Oh no. They’ve got in. They’ve found him. They’ve—_

She threw herself into the room. Shaun—who was half inside one of the lockers that lined her walls—squeaked, tripped over his own feet, and landed in a heap on the floor. In an instant, Quinn had scooped him up, pressing him to her chest as she began to fire questions at him.

“Why is the door open? Has anyone come in? Who came in? What did they say to you? What did they do? What did you tell them? What—?”

“Mom!” Shaun gasped, freeing himself from Quinn’s crushing embrace and stepping back. “I’m fine! I just wanted to explore so I—”

He jumped as Quinn slammed her door shut with an almighty bang, cowering away from her as she advanced on him.

“You left the room?” she hissed, anger pushing aside her hysterics. “All I do to keep you safe, and you just throw it back in my face like—?”

Her rage caught in her throat as she looked down on her son, his eyes wide with fear and brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his back pressed against the bed from his place on the floor. She didn’t even remember him sitting down. “I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

What the hell was she doing? Quinn crouched and silenced him with a hug, her own eyes prickling. She rocked Shaun in her arms as he started to cry, suddenly feeling awful.

“Don’t say sorry, Shaun,” she mumbled. “Please don’t. You did nothing wrong. I overreacted. I... _I’m_ sorry.”

Shaun didn’t reply, but his sniffling lessened, until eventually he pulled away from her, wiping his eyes.

“Why did you go out?” Quinn asked gently. “You know I wanted you to stay inside.”

“I was bored,” Shaun mumbled, staring at his knees. “And the ship looked so cool...I just wanted to see...and talk to people. I used to talk to people at the Institute a lot. Like Doctor Li. She’s here.”

Quinn thought about the discussion she’d just had with Madison Li, and grimaced.

He suddenly looked nervous. “When you said you wouldn’t leave me...did you mean it?”

“You’re my son.” Quinn took his hands in hers. “I won’t abandon you.”

Yesterday she would have felt uncomfortable with such a statement. Today, it almost felt natural. Was she replacing her child with someone else so quickly? Or was she becoming attached because he was all she had left?

Her head was throbbing. Everything felt inherently wrong, and yet so damn _right_ at the same time. Quinn couldn’t pinpoint where the conflict was—maybe it all just overlapped into one big mess. But it wasn’t worth thinking about right now. There was the problem of Rachel. In an instant, Quinn’s mind was made up.

“We’re going to leave the Prydwen,” she said in a low voice, “and we’re never coming back.”

Shaun blinked in dismay. “What? But I haven’t looked around here properly yet!”

“Listen to me,” Quinn said in the same low voice. “It’s not safe here. If we stay, we are in great danger. I can’t say too much right now, but I will one day soon. I promise. For now, I just want you to trust me. Okay?”

Shaun hesitated, biting his lip. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

Quinn kissed his head. “Good boy. Now get some sleep while I get what we need. We’re leaving as soon as I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning, for her usual hard work!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for all the lovely comments. I haven't had time to answer them yet. I'm working on it.
> 
> Honestly, the dialogue with Li really irritated me in-game. She's yelling about being betrayed and how dare you use Liberty Prime that way, and how she thought it was just to intimidate the Institute to surrender and stuff, and I'm like...the thing fires rockets. WHAT DID YOU THINK WAS GOING TO HAPPEN???
> 
> At this point I'm just using this fic as an extended 'stuff I wanted to say to like every character ever in Fallout 4' rant, and I don't intend on stopping anytime soon.
> 
> Speaking of not stopping anytime soon, we are reaching the tailend of BNC. But that doesn't mean I'm finished quite yet. There are things I have to wrap up before I'm well and truly done, and I am very excited for these things to happen. Either way, I'm about 90% done, but given that this fic is nearly 60 chapters long, don't expect a quick wrap up. BNC is going to be updated for a good few months!
> 
> In other news, for those of you who don't keep an eye on my other works, I posted a small drabble (AU) a few weeks ago. It's called Cad Camlan and involves an Elder Maxson working for the Institute...


	59. Reflections

Quinn ran the list over in her head again. Armour. Ammo. Stimpaks. Provisions. All the things she’d need for the starting trip, and a little extra, in case something went wrong.

_Armour, ammo, stimpaks, provisions._

Something felt missing, and it was setting her on edge.

The letter to Bantios’ family was in her pocket, ready to be delivered. Teagan could help her out with everything except the power armour. She’d have to go to Ingram for that.

_Armour, ammo, stimpaks, provisions._

The mantra beat like a drum, guiding her to the quartermaster’s little domain. There would be no games with him tonight, no playful bargaining. She would get what she required, whatever the price, and then she would go.

She could still feel the need for something more. Quinn was starting to suspect what it might be, but she ignored it for the moment. She had things to do, places to go. Even with the stress, she could hold off for now.

Quinn found Teagan leaning against the counter of his shop, tapping his fingers and watching her approach. Like her, he didn’t seem to be in the mood for a long dance. But as she opened her mouth to speak, he got ahead of her.

“I know I’m not the first to say this, but I appreciate what you did down there. The Institute got exactly what it deserved.” Teagan straightened up, and Quinn couldn’t help but notice the bitterness in his voice.

“Cheer up, Proctor,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “We won.”

“I wish that I could. I just keep thinking about all the lives that were lost getting to this point.”

Now that was odd. She considered him, and wondered if Teagan had doubts about Maxson’s leadership. If he did, then others would too. Could it be the Brotherhood wasn’t so blind in its following after all?

“There was this one pilot in particular...Rico was his name,” Teagan said, suddenly looking distant. “I’ve been on this ship long enough that I’ve watched him go from a greenhorn wastelander to a lancer. Every day after his duty shift he’d come back here and we’d talk about...well, everything. Sometimes for hours.”

I remember the day Kells put him in charge of a vertibird. He ran right down here to me and handed me a bottle of whisky. I told him to keep it, but he insisted. He said I was his friend...felt he owed it to me for keeping him sane all these years.”

At the mention of the whisky, his face changed. It became longing, riddled with a painful desire. The desire of an alcoholic. The same look she’d seen in Danse’s face whenever she’d mentioned booze to him. Only with Danse, the longing had always been quickly replaced with a glint of fear. Teagan’s craving lingered, threatening to devour him.

“Sounds like a good man,” Quinn said lightly, her own heart fluttering at the thought of a cool glass of liquor in her hand.

“He was,” Teagan said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Right before you got back to the Prydwen, Kells told me he was shot down. Some punk with a rocket launcher got lucky and blew him from the sky.”

Quinn felt her stomach tighten. For a second, Teagan’s features crumpled with distress, and he leaned back onto the counter, his head in his hands. Then he stepped back as if nothing had happened and fixed her with a weary glance.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this,” he muttered, picking at the peeling leather of his gloves. “It’s not really any of your concern. I guess I just wanted to show you that there’s two sides to every victory. Those who live to revel in it, and those who died making it happen.”

“Teagan…”

“Well, I think I’ve raked you through the mud long enough,” he said loudly over her, sweeping the moment aside. “Here, I want to give you this as a token of my gratitude for everything you’ve done.”

He ducked out of sight and then reappeared, a bottle of whisky in his grip. He pressed it into her arms before she could argue and gave a weak smile. “I hope the gesture means the same to you as it did to me.”

Quinn turned the bottle over, staring at the faded label. Not as good as Islay, but still a decent quality. Her heart picked up the pace. This had been the item missing from her list. An awful, selfish idea sprang to mind, and she seized it at once. “Come have a drink with me, Proctor.”

“I...uh…” He blinked. “What?”

“Come have a drink with me,” she repeated, smiling. “In my quarters. As friends. Or acquaintances, if you prefer.”

She had barely ever spoken to Teagan, and yet he’d still covered for her when she’d blacked out in the underbelly of the Prydwen. Now he had presented her with a gift, even if he didn’t understand his own intentions. She could see his eyes lingering on the bottle—an addict’s gaze. Part of her felt guilty for tempting him, but the rest of her craved the blissful nothing of alcohol. It all felt too much.

“I...” Teagan sighed and shook his head. “If ever I needed drink, it’s today. But I promised Cade I’d stay sober.”

“No worries,” Quinn replied, his refusal a blow. “But before I go, a favour.”

“Yeah?”

Quinn passed him the letter she had written the night before. “I dunno how you find where to send it, but this needs to go to Squire Bantios’ family. It’s...it’s a death notification.”

“I see.” Teagan took it from her, suddenly looking sheepish. “Who…?”

She explained what happened with Casey and Bantios. Teagan’s face paled, and he covered his face with hand as he groaned. “I’m sorry. I lectured you and you already…”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, giving his shoulder a little shake. “Rico’s story deserved to be heard.”

Teagan lowered his hand and nodded. “You’re right, ma’am. And...thanks.”

“Goodnight, Teagan.”

“Goodnight, ma’am.”

By the time Quinn sorted her equipment for tomorrow’s journey, convinced Ingram to give her a new set of power armour—not that Ingram needed much convincing—and returned to her room, Shaun was fast asleep. She hated keeping him locked up like this. That would change soon.

Quinn put her bag of supplies on the floor, keeping the whisky to hand as she settled herself down in the chair by her desk and stared at the bottle. As always in times of great stress, it called to her. Who was she to ignore it?

_“We can stay sober together.”_

Her words to Danse rang in her head. But he wasn’t here right now. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and one drink wouldn’t do much damage. If she did go a little overboard, she could always leave tomorrow instead.

Still, Quinn hesitated. She turned the whisky over and over in her hands, watching the trapped air bubbles swirl in the amber liquid before settling again. There was one great issue lurking at the back of her mind, waiting for the chance to come out. Quinn closed her eyes as the thought wriggling free, slithering from the shadows and nestling in her head. She tried to push it away, but it clung on, digging its claws in deep.

What would Danse think of Shaun?

Her eyes snapped open again, and she looked at the little boy on her bed. Would he accept Shaun the way she was attempting to, or outright reject him? If Danse hated him on sight, refused to even try to know Shaun, their relationship might end very quickly. Danse could look after himself. Shaun could not, and she had chosen to bring him into this world.

A knock snapped her from her thoughts.

Quinn shot a glance at Shaun, who stirred but didn’t wake. She turned her chair to face the exit and said, “Yeah?”

The door swung open and Carson stepped inside, his nose buried in a clipboard, reeling off a list of operations coming into play that she might take a personal interest in. He continued on for a good few seconds, before pausing at her lack of a response. Carson looked up and then frowned slightly at the bottle in her hands. “Were you going to drink that?”

“I'd been considering it.”

“All at once?”

“Yup.”

He blinked in surprise, before an ugly scowl streaked across his features. “For fuck’s _sake—_ ” He stopped as Shaun mumbled and turned over in his sleep. When Carson continued, his voice was a fierce whisper. “I told you to come to me first. To _talk_ to me.”

“Do you see me drunk?”

“Well, no but—”

“Exactly.” Quinn stood up and put the bottle on her desk. “I thought about it. I decided against it.”

Carson rolled his eyes. “But by happy circumstance you're still sitting there, cradling the thing?”

“Nothing wrong with wanting to hold the bottle for a bit.”

“Do you _hear_ yourself?” His scowl deepened. “You're a goddamn alcoholic.”

“Not yet.” Quinn shrugged. “Though could you blame me if I was?”

“Quinn…”

He moved towards her and for a second she thought he was going to give another lecture. Instead, he hugged her. Quinn bit her lip to hold back the tears. She wasn't going to cry again.

“I can’t talk to you,” Quinn mumbled into his shoulder. “Not about this.”

“Rachel then. Or Cade,” Carson replied quietly. Quinn didn't bother to argue with him. Better to let him think he’d made a good point.

Eventually they broke apart, though he still looked concerned. “Give me the booze and get some sleep. Then you won't be tempted.”

“It was a gift off Teagan. I'm keeping it. I won't drink it, I swear.”

Carson seemed unconvinced, but after a few seconds he nodded. “Alright. We'll talk tomorrow.”

 _No, we won’t,_ she thought to herself, but she smiled and said, “Sure. Goodnight.”

“‘Night.”

Quinn waited until he’d gone, the door closing with a slight click as Carson carefully shut it. She walked over to her bag, crouched down, and began sorting through the items. Some of it would stay in the bag with Shaun. Most of it would go with her in the power armour. As she worked, though, her thoughts drifted back to her team, and all the other friends she had made on the ship.

Quinn would miss them—even Rachel, despite their clashes. She would never know if Casey survived, never see Kapraski pilot a vertibird again. Never find out if Maxson pulled himself from this destructive, self-righteous path. Somehow, the last seemed impossible. Maxson was under the thumb of Kells, whether he knew it or not, and no one else dared challenged him. He was a war leader, and there were only two outcomes that Quinn could predict: an organisation warped into a monster all of its own, or a graveyard when it was eventually run into the ground.

She sighed, zipping up the bag. No point thinking about this now. Shaun wasn’t safe on this ship, and by extension, neither was Quinn. She tried to tell herself that she had done her part—the rest was up to them.

Quinn almost believed it as she stood and gently shook Shaun awake. He mumbled and grumbled, but eventually pulled himself out of bed, rubbing his face and yawning. She passed him the small backpack and then led him through the ship to her armour, which she quickly loaded up before clambering into. The corridors were nearly empty, most of the staff either asleep or still celebrating somewhere.

Wincing at the clangs of her heavy footsteps, Quinn made her way to the decks with Shaun, noting that the sun was only just starting to set.

“Wow,” he mumbled, shielding his eyes from the sun. “It’s...it’s so bright. I can’t even look at it.”

“Yeah, don’t do that. You’ll damage your vision.”

“What?”

“The sun isn’t like the lights inside. You can hurt your eyes.”

Alarm flickered across his face and he quickly dropped his gaze to his feet.

This time, Quinn laughed. “Sweetie, just don’t look at it directly and you’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” He grinned shyly.

“Haven’t you seen the sun before?” Quinn asked, cocking her head to the side. “You’ve been on the Prydwen for a couple of days now.”

“It was dark when we got here,” Shaun said with a shrug. “And I didn’t want to...I couldn’t…” He slowly went red. “I didn’t want to go back outside without you.”

Maybe like his human counterpart, he was afraid of the ‘upper’ world. The technology of the Brotherhood had shielded him from reality just that little while longer. Quinn gave him a small smile.

“I’m here now,” she said gently. “So let’s go explore...together.”

He nodded and then followed her to one of the vertibirds, climbing in with a frown. If what he said was true, and he’d travelled to the Prydwen in the dark, then he was in for a nasty shock when it took off.

Her prediction was correct. As it pulled away from the main ship and turned towards its destination, Shaun visibly paled. He stood by her side, latched to her arm, his wide eyes staring at the ground far below. She would have comforted him, but opening her mouth with her travel sickness felt like a bad idea. Thankfully, it was a trait Shaun didn’t seem to share.

The aircraft didn’t take them far, which was a blessing, as Quinn wasn’t sure her stomach could cope with a long ride. The walk to the bunker would be dangerous in its own right, but she couldn’t risk the Brotherhood straying too close to Danse’s location or where she was taking Shaun. Even at night.

When the vertibird had lowered itself to earth, Quinn carefully tugged herself free from Shaun’s grip and stepped off the edge, hitting solid ground with a rush of relief. She turned to Shaun. He was holding onto the locked minigun stand, staring at the dirt with obvious apprehension.

Quinn held her hand out to him, and after a slight hesitation, he grasped it, took a deep breath, and let himself drop. His shoes touched the earth with an anticlimactic _‘thud.’_ Shaun looked at his feet before slowly scraping his soles against the grit. He paused, then grinned as he did it again.

“Mom, listen to this!” He did it a third time, and glanced up at her, his smile broad. “Is this the same as soil? The Institute grew plants and grass in it, but...well, this looks different.”

Noting the odd look the lancer was giving them, Quinn put her helmet on and moved Shaun away so the pilot could take off again. Dust swirled up into their faces as the aircraft left, and Shaun coughed and coughed until his eyes watered, startled by all the dirt in the air.

Trying not to laugh too much at him, Quinn gently explained how the landscape of the wasteland was different from the artificially created world of the Institute. He listened with rapt attention, before scuffing his feet against the ground again.

When Quinn beckoned him to follow, he obeyed. She kept him close, her gun at the ready as she continually scanned the horizon. No knowing what was lurking nearby, and with Shaun unarmoured and ignorant of the danger...

She needed Danse. Not just for his company, or because of how she felt about him. She needed him to help her escort Shaun to their next destination. The bunker quickly came into view, and Quinn felt her heart race. Turning up on his doorstep, Shaun in tow, no real explanation for anything. She stepped in the elevator, her mind suddenly blank as it descended. Shaun moved close to her again, shivering as the mechanisms shrieked and groaned.

What would she say? What the hell would she say?

Quinn was still asking herself this as the doors slid open. The bunker looked abandoned, the computer on, its green text the only light in the dark. She motioned for Shaun to stay out of sight, and made her way through, treading carefully to reduce her noise. In the distance, she saw a figure on the bed, and turned on her helmet light to reveal Danse. By the rise and fall of his chest, he was obviously asleep, so she quietly stepped back out and left her armour, before walking over to Shaun.

“This is my friend, Danse,” she whispered to him as she crouched down. “I’m going to wake him up and introduce you to him. Just stay here until I call you in, okay?”

“Okay,” Shaun whispered back, looking confused. Quinn ruffled his hair and then straightened up, slowly approaching Danse. She was dragging this out, delaying the moment she told him what she’d done. Maybe he’d be fine over the whole thing, but somehow Quinn doubted it.

Her Pip-Boy light didn’t disturb him, and Quinn noticed how exhausted he looked. He was flat on his back, as if he’d thrown himself there and immediately fallen asleep. She leaned over and caressed his cheek.

* * *

Strange dreams had been plaguing Danse for some time now. Different than the usual ones. The team was absent, Rivet City far away. Instead, he was alone, wandering through deserts and ruins, searching for another living soul. He never found one. Somehow, the wandering was worse than his nightmares.

Danse jolted awake as something touched his face, and his hand shot up, grabbing at the thing in front of him. There was dazzling green light, a weight on the bed. He pulled the intruder forward, and then he saw her startled expression.

His mouth dropped open. “Quinn?”

Tired and beautiful, shadows emphasising the scars and valleys of her weary features. She smiled. “Hey.”

Euphoria exploded within his chest, and he dragged her into a hug as he lay on his back. Quinn didn’t fight him, but clung on as hard as he was clinging to her. There were no words—the warmth of her touch, the smell of her, the sound of her fluttering heartbeat—Danse drank it all in. He couldn’t think of anything, hitting a wall whenever he tried to speak. She was here, and he cared about nothing else. He ran his fingers through her hair, wanting nothing more than to kiss her and hold her and make sure she was in one piece.

Before he could get his bearings, she eased herself free. For the first time, Danse noticed her apprehension. It was written all over her—every tense movement and nervous flick of the eye to avoid meeting his own betraying her concern. She was nursing a bombshell and looking for the right moment to drop it.

“You’re not leaving already?” he whispered. Alone? No, Danse couldn’t cope with being alone so soon again.

 “Danse…” she began, but hesitated.

He let the silence reign for a few seconds, hoping she’d find the courage to speak her mind. But when she didn’t continue, Danse said, “What’s wrong?”

Quinn forced herself to meet his gaze. “I...need to introduce you to someone.” She turned to the empty doorway. “Shaun, can you come here, please?”

A young boy shuffled into view, his hands tucked behind his back as he dragged his feet along the floor. Danse felt himself go cold. Quinn had mentioned the child synth to him in her brief recollections of the Institute. Her confusion. Her worry. Her anger at his creation...and his future. Apparently none of that mattered to her now.

Fury rushed through him, and suddenly he was on his feet, though he had no memory of standing.

“Danse!”

Quinn was next to him, alarmed. He tried to answer, but found he couldn’t speak. There was too much to say. Too much to _denounce._ His mouth open and closed a few times, before he simply shook his head and stormed from the room. The blood in his veins boiled as the grogginess of sleep departed.

Behind him, he heard Quinn order the...whatever it was to stay behind. Then her familiar footsteps as she ran to catch up with him. He felt her hand fall on his arm, and he wrenched himself away, turning on the spot with a glare.

Quinn stepped back, shocked for a moment, before scowling.

“How could you—?” he started to say, but she cut across him.

“Not here. Not in front of him.”

“You—”

“Not. _Here.”_ The danger was clear in her voice, and despite his anger, he relented.

“Fine. Upstairs.” Danse stomped off to the elevator without another word. She quickly joined him, the quiet between them awkward as they ascended to the surface. The last time they had been in here together, the moment was sweet and filled with long, bittersweet kisses. Now disgust whirled around alongside the questions in his head, and he was grateful the dark meant he didn’t have to look at her.

The second he stepped out into the bunker’s entrance, the first question broke free. “What the _hell_ were you thinking? Why have you brought it with you?”

“Don’t call him an it!” Quinn snapped at once. “You’re not an _it_ , and neither is he, so don’t fucking start with that shit, Danse!”

Danse grimaced. She was right. But he wasn’t going to apologise—not now. His anger was coming from an odd place. Quinn would save any child, and in her shoes he might have done the same. But this wasn't just any child, and her reasons for bringing him back…Danse had his suspicions, and they weren't pleasant.

He launched into the next attack. “Does the boy know he’s a synth?”

Quinn’s glare deepened as she strode across the room and shut the bunker door leading to the wasteland. Then shook her head. “No.”

“You need to tell him.”

“No.”

_“No?”_

“You heard me. No. He doesn’t need to know. It’s better that way.”

Danse couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “After everything that happened to me,” he said, not bothering to hide his incredulous tone, “you want to _lie_ about what he is?”

“Yes, but—”

 _“You want to lie about what he is?”_ Danse repeated, his voice rising in volume. Soon he would be shouting. He didn’t give a damn. He needed to shout. “You want him to think he’s a person, a _real person_ with a _real family_ , only for that to be snatched away from him at some point in his future? You want his entire world to fall apart, to know everything he thought was a lie, and that his own mother was part of it?”

Quinn was close to tears. But she wasn’t arguing with him either.

Danse tried to swallow his anger, the feelings of that moment he learned the truth resurfacing. No, not resurfacing. Every second of every day since had been an uphill battle.

The questions of whether he was real. The constant glances over his shoulder. Paranoia. Fear. His home a fortress, the only thing to keep him safe—a claustrophobic prison disguised as a sanctuary. Endless days and nights of self-inflicted loneliness, too scared to hope for a friend. Terrified of being abandoned but expecting it without pause. Each bitter beat of his heart a reminder.

Constant, unending _misery._

“You don’t understand a damn thing I went through,” Danse spat. It wasn’t a question, and the knowledge hurt him more than any bullet ever could. “What I’m still going through. You chose to save him, knowing what he is. At the very least you could pretend it was for his own good rather than your gain.”

“He called me his mom,” Quinn breathed, her lip trembling. “He was scared. I had to take him with me. I _had_ to!”

“Tell him what he is!”

“No!” Quinn screamed, slamming her fist into the door. “I won’t condemn him to everything you suffered just for being what you are!”

“You condemned that boy the moment you brought him with you!” Danse bellowed back. “You condemned him to the life of a synth!”

Stunned silence. They stared at each other, Quinn stricken at his words. Danse was alarmed by them himself. All the effort he had put in to try and accept what he was, and he clearly still despised his own existence.

“If you don’t tell him,” Danse said, his voice shaking a little now, “when he eventually finds out, he will hate himself and he will hate you.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Why bring him here then?” Danse snapped, the anger flaring up again. “You must have known how I’d see this.”

“I need to get him to Sanctuary,” Quinn said, her eyes red as she tried to stem her crying. “Please come with me. Help me protect him.”

“Sanctuary?” Her audacity—while annoying—was something he’d come to expect from her. But this was a new level. She wanted him to participate in her charade?

“I can’t keep him on the Prydwen. Rachel already suspects something isn’t right. And I have no intention of telling them where I went, or ever going back.”

Danse wasn’t surprised by this declaration. No, what actually surprised him was how little the news bothered him. A few months ago he would have argued her into a stalemate to keep her with the Brotherhood. Now it seemed irrelevant—she’d given them the Institute, at the cost of her real son. They owed her far more than they’d ever know. And leaving made sense, if Quinn wanted to keep the synth child safe.

“They’ll search for you,” Danse said. “They’ll want to make sure you’re alive. You’re a great asset to Maxson.”

Quinn looked horrified by this. Had it really not occurred to her that as a general rule the Brotherhood took care of its own? Or maybe she’d just panicked and fled without bothering to sever ties first.

“When things settle down, I’ll go back and set them straight,” she said, folding her arms. “Maxson made me a sentinel. Free reign and all of that. I’ll tell him I intend to set up shop in the Commonwealth and do my own solo missions from now on.”

“Sentinel?” Danse blinked. The last sentinel had been Sarah Lyons, so very long along. He still remembered Maxson’s grief when she died—something Danse suspected the young man never truly got over. “I didn’t think that rank would be reissued while Maxson was still in charge.”

“Well, it has. And here I am. I’ll use it to my benefit.”

Another awkward pause. Danse sighed and headed back towards the elevator, holding it open so Quinn could follow. He caught her frown before the doors slid shut.

“We need to leave as soon as possible if you don’t want a Brotherhood patrol spotting you,” he explained to the darkness.

“Leave?” He could hear the hope in her voice.

“To Sanctuary.”

“To...so you’ll help?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you!”

He heard her move and he held his hand out, fending her off. She dropped back the second she touched his palm.

“Don’t mistake my assistance for acceptance,” he said firmly. “I have a lot of thinking to do once we get there.”

“What...what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the short ride down, not daring to explore what he’d just said. When they stepped into the dim bunker, Danse saw the boy fiddling with Quinn’s armour, trying to pry off one of the panels with a screwdriver.

“Shaun!” Quinn snapped at once. “Don’t mess with that!”

The boy dropped the screwdriver in surprise and looked guiltily at his feet. “Sorry, mom…”

Danse bit back a laugh. The moment wasn’t right, but at the same time he couldn’t help but be amused. It reminded him of the first time he’d tried to work on a set of power armour, Krieg’s reprimand bouncing off his head with each shoddy repair.

_“Look after your gear and it’ll look after you! All I’m seeing is apathy right now, Knight Danse!”_

The memory faded, and he returned to the present, watching Quinn scold the boy as she checked over the damage to her suit. Danse put his hand in his pocket, pulling free the holotape and the wedding rings. When he hadn’t been sitting at the terminal, listening to her voice over and over, he’d kept the items close. He could almost trick himself that she was near.

Danse put them back in his pocket, picking up weapons and supplies as he walked over to his own armour. He’d give her the rings and the holotape later, when she wasn’t so busy. Later, when everything had settled down. He wasn’t holding onto them a little longer for himself, of course.

No, definitely not for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thank you for all the comments you've been leaving me! I especially enjoyed reading all the theories about what you think might happen next. :D
> 
> Danse was incredibly hard to write for this chapter. I ended up rewriting the section outside the bunker about four times over, because obviously we all know what 'canon Danse' would do (except for not bat an eyelid in-game...), but my Danse? I had to really sit and think of a reaction that was true to his original character, but still carried over all the progress he's made in this fic. I hope I did it justice.


	60. Old Friend

The nights were cold without Danse. Colder still when he was only a few houses down the street, and yet completely unapproachable. They hadn’t spoken all the way to Sanctuary, both holding themselves back to stop something slipping out that they might regret.

When they’d arrived, he’d marched off to the house he’d slept in last time—for whatever reason, the settlers had left it untouched. But at least he’d stayed. Quinn had half expected him to turn around and walk straight back to the bunker again.

Life went on as normal for the next few days. She helped organise patrols and farming, traders and resources, all the while keeping Shaun glued to her side. Preston had expected her to help run Sanctuary when she’d first brought them here, and Quinn had fled as far as the Prydwen to escape the responsibility. Now here she was, trying to scrape together an existence in the hollow remains of her former life. Maybe it wasn’t so normal after all.

Danse did his part too, though he always found an excuse for it to be as far away from Quinn as possible. She tried to tell herself she didn’t care, that he’d come around eventually. As the days went on, though, the hope started to slip away.

Quinn trailed back to her old house, depositing herself on the sofa as she became lost in thought. It had been her routine for the last few nights now, while Shaun got ready for bed.

Shaun...

Had she really done the right thing in saving him?

At the time, it had _felt_ right, but now when Quinn tried to replay the moment, it passed by in a blur. She couldn’t remember, couldn’t _think._ All that came to mind was a dead son and a second chance. That didn’t help ease the fear of what had happened...and what was to come. The very thought of telling Shaun he was a synth terrified her, and yet…

“Quinn?”

Quinn glanced up, and for one stupid second, dared to hope it was Danse. Of course it wasn’t. She had known before she’d even looked.

“Hey, Nick.” She smiled and waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the sofa. “Pull up a seat.”

Nick didn’t return the smile and ignored her offer as he walked into the centre of the room, staring down at her. “I’ve been looking for you for a while now. Should have occurred to me you’d be with those Brotherhood schmucks.”

Quinn felt her grin slip away, replaced by something heavy and tired. Of course he’d heard about the Railroad. She laid her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes, preparing herself for the grilling of a lifetime.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

Quinn’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

Nick pulled a cigarette pack from his coat pocket and lit one before speaking. “I said let’s go for a walk. Fresh air will do us both good, and I don’t like standing over you as if I’m about to give you an earful.”

“You’re not?”

“Well…” He shrugged. “Depends on how the conversation goes, really.”

_Depends on what you did._

Quinn sighed and got to her feet. “Sure. But I’m bringing someone with me.”

“Oh?”

“Shaun!” Quinn called, and as a confused look flickered across Nick’s face, Shaun ambled into the room.

“Yeah?” He noticed Nick and his jaw dropped. “Oh wow! It doesn’t look anything like the ones from the Institute!” Before Quinn could tell him off, Shaun ran over, plucking at Nick’s coat. “Mom, it’s the guy from the comic books you gave me! The Silver Shroud!”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Oh brother…”

“Shaun!” Quinn snapped, and Shaun jumped like he’d been burned. “This is Nick Valentine, and he isn’t an ‘it.’ He’s a person, just like you and me. If you can’t say something nice, you don’t say anything at all, y’hear?”

“Yes, Mom.” Shaun turned to Nick, his cheeks red, hanging his head. “Sorry, Mr. Valentine.”

“S’alright, kid.” Nick looked as if he was going to say something else, but one warning glare from Quinn kept him quiet. “We’re just going for a walk, and your mom wants you to come along for the ride.”

“Shoes on, double time,” Quinn said, and Shaun nodded before running off to his room.

“You can explain later,” Nick muttered, just before Shaun came back.

Quinn didn’t get the opportunity for a good twenty minutes. Shaun barraged Nick with questions as they walked to the Red Rocket. Dogmeat bounded out as they drew near, and Shaun screamed, tripping over his own feet as he tried to duck behind Quinn. Then Shaun spluttered as Dogmeat began licking his face and ears, his tail banging against Nick’s legs.

“Oh, mum, is this...could it be?” Codsworth was floating at the door of the truck stop, sounding on the verge of tears. “Has Master Shaun returned to us at last?”

Quinn nodded, her throat dry. Was there any point in telling Codsworth the truth? She’d never even mentioned the original Shaun had lived his entire life by the time she’d found him. But he was awaiting a response, so she smiled and said, “Brought him home.”

“Are you alright, sir?” Codsworth said as Shaun gingerly got to his feet and scurried away from Dogmeat, who was now trying to jump up to carry on licking him. “It’s so good to see you again!” He floated over and twitched his arms in the direction of Dogmeat. “Shoo! Shoo! You’re scaring the poor child, silly dog!”

“Alright, boy, calm down,” Nick said, grabbing Dogmeat by the collar and hauling him away. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, kid. He just likes you. Pet his head and see for yourself.”

Shaun looked as if he didn’t believe a word Nick was saying, but he edged forward anyway and carefully placed his hand on Dogmeat’s head. At once, Dogmeat went wild, wagging his tail and bouncing on the spot, held in place only by Nick’s efforts. Shaun pulled away, but when Dogmeat stopped and patiently waited, Shaun put his hand out again, and giggled as Dogmeat began licking his fingers enthusiastically.

Quinn went inside the truck stop and opened the shutters, before picking up a ball and throwing it to Shaun. “Here. He likes playing with that. But stay at the front where I can see you or you’re in big trouble.”

Shaun caught it and jumped as Dogmeat broke free from Nick, knocking him over and licking his face all over again. Then he stole the ball and jumped back, waiting with a wagging tail for Shaun to pursue him. After a glance at his mother, Shaun obliged.

Nick walked over and pulled up a chair as Quinn settled herself on the bed.

“Codsworth, could you just hang around outside and make sure Shaun doesn’t try to sneak off, please?” She smiled. “I need to talk to Nick.”

“At once, mum!” Codsworth floated off towards the laughing boy now wrestling fruitlessly with Dogmeat for his ball.

“So,” Nick said, crossing his legs as he lit another cigarette. “What’s the deal with the kid?”

His tone was completely different from when they had been in Sanctuary. Quinn didn’t trust this complacency, and warily explained what happened with Shaun, dreading the moment Nick would bring up the bigger topic. He nodded as he puffed away on his smoke, listening with a grave expression. By the time Quinn finished, he was lighting a second.

“Seems like the right thing to me,” Nick said with a shrug. “What was the alternative? Leaving him to die? No sane person would do that.”

“Yeah…” Quinn thought of Danse and the accusations he had thrown at her. Accusations that felt uncomfortably close to the truth. “In all honesty, I still feel unsure about everything. I don’t want him to be a replacement, but...he’s an exact replica of my son. I just…”

“The way I see it, this Shaun is a twin.” Nick turned to look at her. “You’ll give him different values, different memories...a different upbringing. Same genes but not the same person. So stop seeing him as what he is, and what he _will be_ instead.”

“Maybe,” she replied, watching Shaun with a small smile as Dogmeat ran circles around him. “Maybe.”

“Well, that’s beside the point now. I’m just glad you gave him a chance.”

A pause. Quinn knew the question was coming.

Nick heaved a deep sigh. “You know why I’m here, so let’s not dance around the subject anymore. Deacon. The Railroad. All I can think is: why? Honestly? How much of a threat could a dozen or so people in a church pose to the mighty Brotherhood?”

“Deacon and his friends had plans in place to destroy the Prydwen if the Brotherhood became a problem,” Quinn said dully. She had relived this story far too many times in her dreams, and she was so tired of it. “The Brotherhood found out and decided to attack first.”

Nick’s brow furrowed. “You’re talking like you knew about this beforehand.”

“I did. And I helped.”

His mouth dropped open, letting his cigarette fall into his lap. It was a good five seconds before he noticed, cursing and batting at his singed coat, before shooting her a murderous glare.

“You _helped?”_ He wasn’t just angry. Nick’s disappointment cut like razor blades. He sat up straight in his chair, leaning away from her. “I suspected you caught on too late to stop it, but _helped?”_

“There were kids on the ship,” Quinn said hurriedly. Nick’s anger on top of Danse’s was too much to endure. “I couldn’t—”

“You could,” Nick interrupted, his eyes blazing. “You know damn well you could!”

“How?”

“You could have warned them, for starters!” Nick said, slamming his hand down on the armrest of his chair.

“The Brotherhood were already there!”

“Helped them evacuate then! Misdirected your troops! Done something different! _Anything_ different!”

“You weren’t there!” Quinn snapped, rising to her feet. “Us or them! Kids or Railroad! And I’m sick of going over this shit as if there was any other way!”

“Us or them?” Nick shook his head. “Is that what it is now? I trusted you to know when to get out of that organisation, and this is what I’m left with?”

Quinn was rooted to the spot. She’d never argued with Nick past minor squabbling—it was making her feel faint with panic. He was the closest thing she had to family in this shithole of a world, and Quinn could sense him slipping through her fingers.

Nick seemed equally disturbed. He was looking at her like he’d never seen her before. “Only madmen could justify trying to wipe out an entire people just because they were made, not born, and yet you’ve fallen into line with Maxson despite what happened at that church. Despite what they did to Danse.”

“I stayed to deal with the Institute! That was it!” Quinn hissed. Mentioning Danse had struck a nerve. “What else could I do?”

“Join one of the other groups that would have got the job done!” Nick shot back, his scowl worthy of Maxson himself. “The Minutemen! You could have even gone with the Railroad if they hadn’t been conveniently wiped out! Don’t you realise what you’ve _done?”_

“Nick, I—”

“Deacon and his gang protected synths from everyone that would do us harm. The Railroad were all we had left, and now you’ve taken them away.” Nick closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were filled with a mixture of dread and resignation. “Maybe you didn’t think it through. Maybe you meant the best. But that damn robot you helped the Brotherhood build places them at the top of the food chain, and they still have their eye on ghouls and synths. I can’t help but feel like you’ve traded one monster for another, and I’m not alone. Hancock and MacCready...”

Quinn hung her head. She had no energy left for this fight. She diverted her attention to Shaun and saw that both he and Codsworth had stopped dead, transfixed by her argument with Nick.

Nick himself studied her for a second, repeatedly flicking his lighter on and letting it snuff out again. He’d said his piece. So had she.

“I think we’re done here,” Quinn said in a low voice, still not looking at him.

“Yeah,” Nick replied sombrely. “I think we are.”

He left without another word. Quinn couldn’t bring herself to watch him go, but waited until his footsteps had died away completely before raising her head. Shaun and Codsworth were still gawking at her.

“What are you looking at, Codsworth?” she snapped, feeling a twinge of guilt as Shaun flinched too.

“I—um—I just—sorry, mum—”

“Never mind. Lock the place up for the night and look after Dogmeat. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Stay here?” Codsworth said, sounding upset. “Alone, again? But I’ve waited so long to see you both—”

“No. I’ve dealt with enough robots for one day.” Quinn stormed off, a sharp gesture of the hand towards Shaun signalling him to follow.

She was being a bitch and she knew it, but it felt good to lash out, even if it was at the wrong person.

As Quinn marched back to the settlement, though, her anger quickly drained away. There was no ‘wrong person’ to be mad at, because there was no ‘right person’ either. Nick had been completely justified in everything he had said. And she had been justified to defend it. Right and wrong didn’t exist in this situation—only a shitty choice with heavy consequences at every turn.

Quinn knew she would never get Nick’s good opinion back. She would be damned lucky if he ever spoke to her again. Not that she blamed him.

Shaun got ready for bed without being asked when they got home. Quinn stayed in the living room firmly planted in the armchair she’d stolen from Mrs. Bossanova’s old house—a grand thing that only wobbled slightly when she sat on it. The whole setup made her think of her father when Quinn had stayed at his over the weekends. All she needed was a can of beer to complete the transformation—a ruined life of her own making, muddied further still by booze.

Quinn got to her feet and paced about the room, wringing her hands. It was a cold night, but she always made sure Shaun took all the blankets to sleep with. This time, he didn’t argue, avoiding her eye as he slipped beneath the warm layers. What she would do to stave off the chill herself, Quinn didn’t know. She didn’t really care either.

Perhaps it was no coincidence, though, that she kept walking by the cupboard where Teagan’s whisky was stashed. She opened the door and stared at the bottle, licking her lips. Quinn quickly shut it again and heaved a sigh, resuming her pacing.

_No. I’m better than that. I have to be better than that._

Still, her rounds of the room returned her time and time again to the dingy little cupboard, fingers trailing on the decaying wood. The fifth time, Quinn hesitated, tapping her nails on the handle.

“Quinn?”

A sharp intake of breath. She knew it was Danse before she turned around. He was standing in the front entrance, his expression hidden by shadow, though nothing could conceal the tenseness of his body.

Quinn bit her lip. She’d given him his space, hoping it would nurse his pride. Now here he was, sooner than she thought, firmly keeping himself distant in the doorway.

“You’re obviously not comfortable,” she said when he didn’t move. “What do you want?”

Danse ran a hand through his hair and finally stepped forward, the dim light of the candles she had scattered on the shelves highlighting his face. He looked as bad as she felt, tired, worn, and clearly not sleeping.

Quinn could relate. She’d spent the last few nights tossing and turning, missing Danse at her side. Thinking things over in her head. Wishing she had the strength to do what he wanted, knowing she couldn’t. Shaun was an innocent—possibly one of the last untainted things in the wasteland. She didn’t want to be the one to snatch this from him.

“I came to see if you’d changed your mind,” Danse said in a low voice. “I’ve had time to run it all through my head, and…” He shifted on the spot. “I can’t stand by and help—” Danse twitched his head in the direction of Shaun’s room, “—live a lie.”

“I haven’t changed my mind.” Hadn’t she? Quinn didn’t know. But it was easier to say than the chaos in her head.

This apparently wasn’t the answer Danse expected to hear. His features crushed into a scowl. “I thought better of you. Thought you just needed time to come to your senses.”

“Please don’t,” Quinn said softly. “I’ve just had it out with Nick. Don’t add to it.”

Danse shook his head. “Enough, Quinn. You are using that boy like a plaything. You need to—”

“Plaything?” Quinn saw red. “I’m his mother and I know what’s best for him! If you don’t like it, you can _fuck off.”_

There was a long, heavy silence. Danse’s face suggested she had crossed a point of no return. Good. He had just crossed a line with her.

“Fine.”

He was out of the house and stalking off down the street before Quinn could stop him. After a few seconds, Quinn moved towards the open front door and watched him get as far as the bridge leading out of Sanctuary before he melted away into the darkness. She thought she’d be more upset than this. Instead she just felt hollow.

A shuffling noise behind her made her jump, and Quinn saw Shaun had come out of his room, holding his blankets around himself like armour.

“Everything okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah, just…” He pulled the sheets tighter. “What did Mr. Danse mean? Why am I a plaything?”

Quinn felt on the verge of throwing up. “Nothing. He meant nothing. Just talking about stuff he doesn’t understand, that’s all.”

“Mom…” He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “You don’t need to lie to me. I’m ten years old. You can tell me.”

“I’m not lying,” Quinn said firmly, fighting back the nausea. “Danse and I just fight over silly things sometimes.”

Shaun wriggled under his blankets. “I don’t really like it when you fight with people.” He paused and then visibly shrank away from her. “Never mind. ‘Night, Mom.”

“‘Night,” Quinn echoed as Shaun ambled back to his room. She couldn’t feel the cold anymore, her entire body numb. She wandered over to the sofa in a daze and dropped onto it, her parents’ shouts reverberating around her head.

_“You shouldn’t have told her! She’s a teenager, for God’s sake!”_

_“Maybe you should have thought of that before fucking that woman at work! Or do you only give a shit about Quinn so long as she doesn’t know what a scumbag you are?”_

The smash of glasses. The slam of doors. Quinn’s head buried beneath a pillow as she heard her father’s feet walking down their garden path for the last time.

She was putting Shaun through the same thing. Couldn’t she do anything right?

No, she couldn’t. She’d allowed Deacon and the Railroad to die, and then stayed at Maxson’s heels to murder her own son. Taken on Shaun’s replacement and kept him locked away, shouting at him if anything went wrong.

Nick hated her. Maybe the rest of her friends too. And Danse...gone.

Her willpower snapped.

Quinn staggered over to the cupboard, wrenching it open so hard she nearly pulled the door off its rusting hinges. The bottle of whisky waited for her, gleaming in the low light. She started to cry as she took it out, cold and comforting in her hands. No one to help her. No one by her side. A distant boy and bittersweet alcohol her remaining companions. It would warm her the way only spirits could, letting her lie with the dead and make her think they were real.

Somehow, Quinn made it to the sofa again, cracking open the lid and letting the smell burn her nose before she took her first gulp.

The liquor hit her empty stomach, seeping through her and cradling her in the night. Time had eroded her tolerance, and she only made it a third of the way through before she knew she could go no more. Quinn pushed herself to the halfway mark anyway, for good measure. With clumsy hands, she managed to get the lid back on, and then put the bottle on the floor with a clunk. It rolled away, only stopping when it hit the wall.

The sofa suddenly felt much more comfortable than before, and even the stench of rotten fabric and damp seemed far away. Quinn brought her knees to her chest and sobbed into them, the swirl of whisky drowning her until she finally slipped away.

* * *

Danse couldn’t stay angry for long. Not when Dogmeat was licking his face so enthusiastically. The anger would return in time, but right now he needed a distraction, and the loveable mutt was happy to provide.

Danse lay propped up on the bed, Dogmeat splayed all over him, wagging his tail furiously as Danse scratched his ears, and whining when Danse dared to stop. With a laugh, he continued, basking in the animal’s sheer joy at his presence. Maybe he should get a dog too, when he…left.

The lead weight in his stomach returned, and Danse let his hand drop to his side, all interest in Dogmeat disappearing instantly. The dog whined and pushed at his arm with his nose, before giving up and sliding off the bed, padding away with an almost human-like huff.

Codsworth entered the room, holding a cup of coffee on a carefully balanced tray. How he’d managed to get coffee, Danse didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to turn a hot drink down in this weather. Especially since the robot had _insisted_ on serving him.

“How is Miss Quinn?” Codsworth asked tentatively as Danse took his coffee with a mumbled thanks.

“Fine,” Danse replied, taking a careful first sip. It was piping hot and absolutely delicious. Quinn would be in good hands at least. Well, so to speak. He shot the strange contraptions that served as Codsworth’s ‘hands’ a quick glance.

“She had a most fierce argument with Detective Valentine,” Codsworth said woefully. “Miss Quinn was quite upset afterwards, enough to turn her ire on me! I am rather worried about her, sir. Are you keeping an eye on her?”

“No. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want me around.” Danse frowned as he took another sip of his coffee. She’d mentioned a clash with Valentine, but he’d glossed over it, thinking she was trying to change the subject. Danse hadn’t realised it was a serious fight. But then again, he hadn’t bothered to ask.

“Oh...oh dear.” Codsworth floated away. “Oh dear, oh dear…”

Danse remained where he was, slowly drinking his coffee and mulling through his thoughts. Despite his posturing, he wasn’t sure if he could really just up and go. The result was hiding here, drinking stale coffee and lying in Quinn’s bed. Shaun went against everything he believed in...but he loved Quinn. Danse didn’t want to let her go.

“Master Shaun? What are you doing here?”

Shaun?

Danse split some of his coffee down himself as he sat up. Sparing only a second to impatiently brush the bitter droplets from his clothes, he jumped to his feet and set the cup down on the side as he strode to the door. Shaun stuff next to Codsworth, wrapped in a thin blanket and wiping at his tearstained face.

“Mr. Danse?” He sniffed loudly, his bottom lip trembling. Then he burst into tears. “Mom’s not waking up! I thought Codsworth might know what to do. I don’t know anyone else here! Please help her! I don’t want her to die!”

Danse had grabbed his rifle and was out the door before Shaun had finished. But he hesitated as he made it to the dark path leading back up to the settlement, and glanced over at Shaun. There were things lurking out in the black, and any one of them would find the boy easy prey. Danse jogged back, shouldering his rifle.

“Come on. Let’s go help your mother.” He picked up Shaun before the boy could argue, and held him in place with one arm, while his free hand pulled out his pistol. Danse scanned the area to make sure there was nothing obvious nearby, and then set off at a run to Sanctuary, Shaun bouncing along with his pace. He was dimly aware of Codsworth and Dogmeat trailing behind him, both blissfully quiet for once.

_I must be out of shape,_ Danse thought as Quinn’s house drew near. He was exhausted already and the distance between the two landmarks wasn’t that great. Maybe the lack of sleep was taking its toll on him. Maybe he was getting too old to lug small children around without his power armour.

_No...just out of shape._

Stupid thoughts. Meaningless thoughts. But better than the alternative. Frenzied panic, terrible scenarios, similar to his dreams of Cutler, playing on loop in his head. Despair at every argument they’d ever had, petty grievances that could be easily solved.

What had happened? Was she sick? Injured? Dead?

Danse knew the answer as soon as he stepped through her door. He could smell it in the air.

Drunk.

The cause didn’t matter. Quinn was supposed to be looking after the boy. She had _promised_ him they’d stay sober together. Clearly that meant nothing.

_“Like the promise you made to Maxson?”_ a voice in his head chipped in. _“Look how well that turned out. One measly exile and back to the bottle you went.”_

True. But he hadn’t been in charge of a child at the time either. Danse holstered his weapon with a sigh and set Shaun down.

“What’s wrong with her?” Shaun said, pulling at his blanket.

“She’s—” began Codsworth.

“Just worked herself too hard,” Danse said loudly, shooting Codsworth an angry look. The robot took his meaning and fell silent. Shaun didn’t know what intoxicated looked like—it mustn’t have been a common occurrence in the Institute.

The last thing Danse wanted to do was steal a piece of childhood away so soon. That would happen on its own eventually. He crouched down next to Quinn and moved her hair from her face, before tracing his thumb across her lips. She mumbled and pushed his hand away, letting out a slight snore.

Danse turned his attention to Shaun and forced a smile. “This is nothing some sleep won’t cure. Go back to bed and I’ll look after her for the night.”

He stood up and said to Codsworth, “There are some spare blankets in my house down the street. Can you get them, please? I want to keep her warm.”

_My house._

Funny, that somehow he now owned things. Things that weren’t shared with others or bought from the Brotherhood quartermaster. His house. His clothes. And most importantly right now, his blankets.

“Right away, sir!” Codsworth floated off while Dogmeat padded over, giving Quinn a curious lick before curling up on the floor next to her.

“Good boy,” Danse muttered, before turning his attention to the room. He hadn’t noticed it earlier when he’d last spoken to Quinn, but now he could see it was a mess. Danse pottered around, straightening furniture, clearing away food wrappers and discarded clothes, while Shaun watched with wide eyes. Danse picked up the whisky, frowning at it, before hiding it in a nearby cupboard.

Shaun was well cared for and fed, but Quinn? Her living conditions reeked of self-negligence. Whatever she was going through right now, she wasn’t in her right mind. And he’d ignored it.

His train of thought was interrupted by the return of Codsworth, somehow managing to balance all his blankets with ease. Danse took them and carefully laid each one over Quinn, tucking the edges under her body.

“Would you mind patrolling the settlement tonight, Codsworth?” Danse asked as he straightened up, noting that Shaun had finally gone to his room. “Normally I’d do it, but…” He gestured to Quinn.

“Of course, sir!” Codsworth made a strange movement that looked oddly like a salute. “If you require my services again, you need only shout!”

With that, he floated away, humming. Oddly enough, Danse found himself smiling. Was he getting fond of the robot?

He could think about it later. Danse picked up a nearby armchair, setting it down opposite Quinn. He sank into it and stared at her, feeling guilty. What if something really had been wrong? What if something had happened to her, and the last conversation they’d had was an argument? The thought was near unbearable.

Danse leaned forward, taking her hand, and felt his heart skip as her fingers gripped lightly around his.

A dragging noise made Danse look up, and he saw Shaun pulling a mound of fabric into the room. Quickly jumping to his feet to disguise what he had been doing—though why he cared, he didn’t know—Danse strode over to help the boy, and quickly discovered it wasn’t just fabric, but blankets.

“Mom gave me all of this so I wouldn’t be cold,” Shaun said. He picked one up from the pile and threw it clumsily on her, before stooping down for another.

“You need some for yourself,” Danse said, well aware he’d already given all of his blankets to Quinn too. He met Shaun’s eye and pointedly said, “For your own bed. She’s fine, so off you go.”  Danse leaned forward and fixed the new sheets so that they covered Quinn properly.

Shaun cast a frightened glance down the hallway and bit his lip. “I...I don’t want to.”

Danse frowned. “Why?”

“I...I had a nightmare that mom left me in the Institute,” Shaun said quickly, almost tripping over his own words with the speed of them. “That she didn’t want me. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find her. Just people...lying still and...red.” Shaun stopped, taking in a deep breath, his face scrunched up. “I woke up. Came in here, and...she…”

He started to cry again, tears falling like rain as his little body trembled with each sob. Danse leaned forward and put his hand on Shaun’s shoulder. “Shaun…”

Shaun flung his arms around Danse’s middle. When Danse sat back down in the armchair to try and pull himself away, Shaun clung on, climbing into his lap.

This was not in Danse’s comfort zone. This was about as far away from Danse’s comfort zone as physically possible, surety and ease waving mockingly in the distance before departing out of spite.

But still...he could try.

“I, uh…” Danse said, unsure what else he _could_ say. He settled for an awkward pat on Shaun’s head. This seemed to do the trick, because while he clutched harder at Danse, Shaun stopped crying. A few minutes later, his breathing grew heavy, and Danse realised he’d fallen asleep.

_Great._

Danse glanced around, wondering if there was somewhere he could deposit Shaun without waking him up. But save carrying him back to his bed, Danse was stuck. He sighed, shifting in his seat, and watched with some curiosity as Shaun wriggled closer to him, apparently unfazed by the stranger who had escorted him to Sanctuary.

Too trusting. Too...young.

Well, his gun was still within reach at any rate. Danse carefully leaned over the side of the chair and picked it up, ensuring the safeties were on before wedging it next to him. No way for it to be disturbed by either of them, and yet still ready to use at a moment’s notice.

He wasn’t too sure why he was so on edge. Maybe it was because the Brotherhood didn’t know where Quinn was. If she left it too long, they’d send out a search party for her. But that could be months. It took even longer for Cutler.

Or maybe it was because of what Quinn had said about Marguerie. That she suspected ‘something wasn’t right.’ If Marguerie suspected something, then others might too. But then again, suspicions were nothing, and Marguerie would never act without cold, hard _fact._ None of the Brotherhood knew where they were or where they’d gone. Sanctuary was exactly that, and a very easy place to hide in.

Shaun began to shiver, snapping Danse from his worries. He was being paranoid. He knew he was being paranoid. What mattered was the here and now.

Pushing Marguerie firmly from his mind, Danse leaned over the side of the chair again and took hold of several of the blankets, pulling them over Shaun until he stopped shivering. He woke briefly to mumble, “Thanks, Mr. Danse,” and then drifted back off to sleep.

Images of a lonely childhood flashed into his mind. Wandering the Capital Wasteland, chilly and crying. Hiding from the monsters. Dirty. Hungry. Foraging through rusted bins and city waste for the meanest scrap of food. All false memories to be sure, and yet they felt so _real._

Slowly, Danse wrapped his arm around Shaun, holding him close. To stop the cold, he told himself, though he knew it was a lie. For a split second, there was a stab of anxiety. Then it was gone. He looked down at the boy and back at Quinn. A warmth was spreading in his chest.

Danse leaned his head back against the chair, sighing. He would deal with this tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> I didn’t really like the fact aside from a few throwaway lines, the companions didn’t really comment on things like the Railroad. Especially Nick. As for companion comments on the end of the Institute, didn’t seem right to have Nick congratulating her about the Institute while this was weighing on his mind. That discussion will be happening with other companions later, though.


	61. Hangover Heart

Quinn felt the headache before anything else, the night’s grogginess slowly trailing away as she opened her eyes. Blinking, she shifted a little, and turned her head to see herself covered with blankets.

_What the…?_

Finally, she noticed Danse. And then she saw Shaun.

Quinn sat up sharply, before clutching her head with a groan. Last night’s stunt was splintering through her skull, reminding her why she was in this state at all. But Danse had come back...and Shaun was in his arms, both of them squished uncomfortably into Mrs. Bossanova’s old chair. Dogmeat was lying next to her at the foot of the sofa, his tail twitching slightly in his sleep. Her mouth opened as if she was gasping for air, hand clamped to her forehead while her eyes stung. The alcohol clearly hadn’t worn off yet. She was _seeing things._

“Mom?”

Quinn squinted through the haze to see a small figure bound towards her. Shaun’s weight pinned her to the back of the sofa, aggravating her hangover, but she suppressed another groan, hugging him tight. Almost immediately Dogmeat jumped on both of them, licking their faces and barking.

Quinn pulled Dogmeat away by his collar, blinking until her vision cleared. Danse was sitting up straight in her armchair, glaring at her. He was glaring more fiercely than when she’d insisted on concealing the truth from Shaun. What on earth could she have done that was worse than that?

He continued to glower in icy silence as Shaun babbled away, wriggling in Quinn’s lap as he fought against Dogmeat for attention.

“I thought you were sick, Mom! Are you alright? Are you okay? Are you feeling better? You’re not hurt, are you? Do you need a doctor? Do they have doctors up here?”

His eyes were round and panicked, and he jammed his thumb into his mouth and began chewing on the nail. One of Nate’s nervous habits.

“No, sweetie, I’m fine,” Quinn mumbled, kissing him on the head. “I was just—”

“Like I said, she was just tired,” Danse interrupted, his scowl deepening. His burning gaze rested on Quinn, and her stomach squirmed. What was his problem?

As if on cue, Codsworth floated in, breaking the moment before Shaun picked up on it. “Ah, mum! You’re awake! Shall I make you some breakfast?”

A confused question was on her lips—what was Codsworth doing here as well? But it was cut short as Dogmeat began another bout of face licking, causing Shaun to laugh and scratch his ears.

“Shaun,” Danse said loudly, drawing the boy’s attention, “go outside and play with Dogmeat for a bit. I need to speak with your mother.” He turned to Codsworth. “Can you supervise?”

Quinn suspected if Codsworth had eyebrows, he would have raised them. He swivelled to face her. “Mum?”

“Do as he says,” she muttered, bowing her head. She wouldn’t be able to stop Danse having this conversation with her. Better to get it over with now.

Danse waited until everyone had left the room, and then slowly got to his feet. He walked across to the nearby cupboard, opened it, and produced the bottle of whisky. The way he was holding it reminded her of her opposition producing incriminating evidence at a trial.

When he sat back down again, he set it on the floor between the two of them and then leaned back in his chair.

“Explain.”

One little word, and yet it sent shivers rippling through her. Explain? How could she even begin forage through all the shit that had piled up in her head? It would be like trying to piece the Institute back together from radioactive hole in the middle of Boston.

Still, she tried. But Quinn only made it through half of what had gone on when Danse shook his head.

“I’m not interested in that right now. It’s irrelevant.”

_“Irrelevant?”_ Quinn was stunned. “You think killing my son is irrelevant?”

“For this discussion, yes.” His face was set in stone and Quinn was reminded of how cold he could be. It had been some time since it was directed at her. He leaned forward, the same scowl cutting into her as he said, “You told me you saved that boy because you cared about him, because he was scared and you wanted to protect him.”

Danse picked the whisky up and shook it in her face, the amber liquid sloshing violently within. “So explain to me why _this_ has happened.”

“I…I don’t…” Prickles of guilt were stabbing all through her skin. “I wasn’t…”

“He ran all the way to Red Rocket for Codsworth’s help,” Danse spat. “On his own, in the dead of night, because he thought you were ill!”

She said nothing. Everything had gone numb. She could see it now—the little boy, terrified of even being on the decks of the Prydwen without her, so scared that he managed to make such a trip anyway. Quinn felt physically sick, and it had nothing to do with her hangover.

“Oh God,” she said, clutching at the sofa to steady herself. Anything could have happened. Anything, and she had been…

“Drunk,” Danse said, as if he could hear her thoughts. “You were drunk. So drunk even I couldn’t rouse you. What the hell would you have done if raiders had attacked? Or a feral ghoul had wandered into town?”

“Nothing,” Quinn whispered. “I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”

“You stupid, _irresponsible…”_ Danse stopped and took a deep, calming breath, before continuing. “You are his parent. You are _supposed_ to be acting in his best interests. This doesn’t look like his best interests to me.”

Quinn shook her head, staying silent. She couldn’t cry. Not now. She didn’t deserve to cry—this reprimand was well and truly earned, and Quinn wouldn’t risk softening Danse’s approach by letting the tears escape.

When he spoke again, though, his voice was still heated, but somehow gentler.

“You are in charge of that boy,” he said, tapping his fingers against the bottle in his hands. “You are his entire world. He adores you. But you need to decide _why_ you took him from that place, and whether your priority is him—” Danse held up the whisky. “—or this.”

Quinn buried her head in her knees. She had been witness to her father’s drunken stupors throughout her childhood, a burden that remained, even as an adult. The same had now been inflicted on Shaun. Quinn gripped at her legs, digging her fingers deep into her thighs.

Danse looked confused when she suddenly threw off all her blankets and snatched the bottle from his hands.

“Quinn?” His tone was a mix of shock and indignant.

She ignored him. For now, her moping was done, and fury had taken its place. Nate would be ashamed of her if he’d seen the state she had let herself fall into last night. He certainly would have been harder on her than Danse.

Blood pounded through Quinn’s ears as she marched out of the house and down the street. She made it all the way to the bridge, Danse at her heels, before stopping and staring down at the bottle in her hand.

Never again.

Quinn hurled the whisky with a grunt, relief surging through her as it hit the statue at the end of the bridge and exploded. Glass and liquid sprayed everywhere, creating a smattering of dark patches in the dry ground. She was still standing there, breathing heavily through her nose when a hand fell onto her shoulder and turned her around.

Danse took one look at Quinn’s face before bringing her into his arms. She clung to his coat, trying to keep herself steady, until she gave up and just let him hold her up while she bawled. Everything came out—not so much in words, but a torrent of emotion that threatened to drown all of Sanctuary.

Quinn felt empty when she finished, but a good kind of empty—raw as hell, but also scraped clean. She had been purged, the ghosts ripped away. Quinn wondered how long they would take to come back.

Eventually she found her feet and managed to stand unaided again. Quinn glanced up at Danse, expecting to see exasperation or anger, but instead there was only concern. It quickly melted away into the determination she loved so much in him.

“You’ve had a hell of a rough time lately,” he said, touching her face, “but that doesn’t mean the answer is in a bottle of scotch. We need to make sure neither of us does this again.”

“Help me tell him,” Quinn replied, gripping tightly at Danse’s arms.

His expression said he knew exactly what she was referring to. A look of relief flickered across his face as he gave a small, slow nod.

“Of course.”

* * *

Breakfast was a tense affair. Codsworth’s inane chatter filled the silence as he cooked up a storm, his speciality omelettes making a good impression on Shaun. Quinn felt too sick to eat, chasing her food across her plate with her fork instead. Codsworth didn’t comment when he took away the untouched meal, or when she asked him to leave her alone with Danse and Shaun. Ever the savvy butler, he ushered Dogmeat from the house, coaxing the animal out with Quinn’s leftover food.

The room became very quiet as she sat with Shaun on the sofa, Danse hovering in the background. Quinn had wanted him with her to make sure the words would come out, but now it was happening, suddenly she needed no assistance. She told Shaun before her brain caught up with her mouth, the statement blunt and unkind.

“Shaun, you’re a synth.”

Quinn wasn’t sure what she expected to happen. Upset, maybe? In denial or angry, or perhaps even confused. The emotions she had seen from Danse when his past had been revealed to him.

Shaun picked at a hole in his shirt. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“What?” Her mouth fell open as she stared at the boy.

Shaun gave a shrug. “All the tests with Doctor Li. All the times Father came to see me. All the arguments you’ve been having with Mr. Danse. It just makes sense, you know? I’m not stupid. And when you both shout, you’re loud.”

Quinn threw Danse a horrified glance, and saw his expression mirrored hers. Despite his insistence that Shaun needed to know, he would feel the same as her—this was not the way Shaun should have found out.

His little face crumpled slightly. “I didn’t want to think about it. Because if I’m a synth, then you’re not my mom.”

“Honey,” Quinn said gently, the upset that was creeping into his expression a knife in her gut. “I’m still your mom.” She wriggled in her seat. He needed to know everything. It would be the only way to convince him he belonged. “You...you were made from Father’s DNA.”

She explained as best she could. Quinn hadn’t intended to tell him this part of the tale, but it just felt right. There were too many in her circle of friends who knew that Father had been her son, and too much risk that it would get back to Shaun. Better he heard it from her so she could patch the damage as quickly as possible. This time Shaun seemed stunned.

“I’m just…a copy?” His voice was laced with anguish.

“No!” Quinn sat up straight, her heart racing. She had to snuff this out now before it spiralled out of control. “You’re not a copy. You’re a new person. Like...his twin.”

Even to her own ears it was a weak protest. Nick had worded it better.

“Real people are born,” Shaun said flatly. “Synths aren’t born. I used to sneak out of the lab at night when Doctor Li wasn’t there. I saw the other synths being put together. So Father was the real one. And I’m the fake.”

Quinn gaped at him. She hadn’t realised how smart he was, which seemed ridiculous now she thought of it. The original Shaun had been a scientist in charge of the entire Institute. Every argument she’d ever had about the validity of synths went straight out of her head, so that all she could do was stare stupidly at him.

“There’s more to a person than whether they’re born or not,” said Danse.

Both Shaun and Quinn turned to look at him. He’d finally stepped forward, looming over the top of them. Shaun shrank back. But then Danse grabbed Mrs. Bossanova’s old armchair and dragged it in front of Shaun, holding the boy’s gaze intently as he sat himself down.

“That’s probably the most important lesson your mother ever taught me. It doesn’t matter if I’m a synth. I’m still real. I have memories that I know are my own. I feel and I hurt like any other person. The only people who care about where you came from rather than who you are aren’t worth your time. Another thing your mom helped me see.”

“You’re a synth?” Shaun looked amazed, while Danse seemed calm, and Quinn noticed his usual pained expression when talking about himself was absent.

Danse nodded. “I’m a synth. I only found out recently, but it’s true.”

“But _how?”_ Shaun blinked at him, now extremely confused. “You don’t wear the uniform or talk funny or boss anyone around. You don’t act like a synth. You act like...”

Danse smiled. “Like a human?”

Shaun nodded, going red.

“That’s because I am. And so are you. The Institute treated synths badly...made them talk funny and wear those uniforms. But some people helped me escape. Helped me make a new life for myself. I picked my own name, made my own path...and I found your mom in the process.”

Shaun suddenly looked interested. “You picked your own name?”

“Yes,” Danse replied. “I used to be called _M7-97._ But I decided that sounded—” He paused, clearly trying to find a word Shaun would connect with. “—lame. Don’t you?”

Shaun giggled. “No one says ‘lame’ anymore, Mr. Danse.”

It was Danse’s turn to go scarlet. “Well, anyway,” he said quickly, “I thought if I was starting a new life, I should be my own person. And I am.”

Shaun’s grin disappeared as he considered this. He turned to Quinn, clearly apprehensive, and then said, “Mom...if I’m like Father’s twin, could I...can I have my own name? I don’t want to be him. I want to be like Mr. Danse.”

Danse went even redder at this. Quinn didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, it was a relief. Shaun changing his name would alleviate the grief this was causing her—how could she be replacing the original Shaun if he knew what he was and chose to move on from that? But at the same time, the very thought felt like losing Shaun all over again.

He was a terrible, beautiful echo of her son—an idea she wanted to cling to at all costs—and Quinn realised this was precisely why it should happen. The boy was a person, not a concept, and she had to let it go. Shaun needed to be laid to rest.

“If that’s what you want, honey,” Quinn said, forcing a smile as she clawed back the tears, “then I think it’s a great idea. What should we call you?”

“I dunno.” Shaun gave a little grin. “I’ll think about it.”

The awkward quiet returned, Quinn sitting with her hands in her lap, unable to look at Shaun. She could feel his eyes on her, and she licked her lips, shivers racing up her spine. She didn’t know where to go from here—hadn’t planned that far ahead.

Shaun crawled across the sofa and into her lap, giving her a tight hug. “I love you, Mom.”

Quinn slipped her arms around him, her mouth dry. She felt drained, but also like a great, suffocating weight had been heaved off her chest. Danse was watching her with a faint smile on his face, before averting his gaze from the moment. Quinn pulled Shaun closer, kissing the top of his head. “I love you too, honey.”

She meant it.

* * *

The rest of the day passed without incident, Quinn teaching Shaun how to play fetch with Dogmeat properly, while Codsworth occasionally lectured her on the dangers of skipping a meal. Danse quietly stayed nearby, never taking his eyes off her. At first she thought he was supervising, until Quinn realised he was still wearing that small smile.

Eventually darkness fell and Quinn tucked Shaun into bed, worried he might have trouble sleeping after the events of the previous night. But he drifted off almost immediately, to her greatest surprise.

The other issue was Danse. Now the discussion with Shaun was over, Quinn couldn't quite meet his eye. The shame of her behaviour from the last few days was finally catching up with her, and suddenly she had nothing to say.

Danse came and sat with her anyway. He kept a respectful distance, watching her closely, until his hand crept over and touched her fingers. He wasn't sullen, wasn't depressed—nothing about him seemed to be lingering on the presence of Shaun. That struck Quinn as the strangest of all.

“What's changed, Danse?” she said, fixing her gaze to her knees. “At the bunker you looked like you were going to explode. Now you're completely at ease.”

Danse shifted in his seat. “I've been mulling over a lot of things recently, and only a small portion of it has been about us.”

Quinn glanced at him and saw he was staring at his hands.

“I thought about why I was so angry over Shaun. Why I was still ashamed of being a synth, and why saving another synth was so terrible.”

Danse sighed.

“It all came down to me. I have been so focused on those that no longer accept me, that I disregarded those that do.” He squeezed her hand. “Those that helped me at every turn. And it became less anger at Shaun’s existence and more fear that he would go through what I did, because you couldn't tell him the truth.”

“It was never as simple as that,” Quinn muttered.

“I know,” Danse replied firmly. “I _know._ I've never been any good with tact—all I could think about was what I believed was right, without considering what you had to go through with the Institute. There was plenty of time. I could have waited. But I had my worries that…” Danse grimaced. “Well, you know. That Shaun was a replacement. And that if you didn't tell him now, then you never would.”

“No, I wouldn't.” Quinn sighed. No point lying to herself. She turned to him and smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

Danse looked taken aback at this and didn't respond. They sat together in leery silence, still holding hands, though it felt more out of courtesy than affection.

“When you left for the final push, I went to the Railroad’s headquarters,” Danse said suddenly.

A shiver raced down her spine. The Railroad? While she dreaded to think what he saw there, she let him continue.

He seemed to notice her grimace, though, because he shook his head. “Nothing happened. But I did find an agent there, burying the bodies. Called herself Watts—”

“An agent?” Quinn sat up straight, a sharp spike of fear piercing through her. “Danse, what if she goes for the ship? Or tracks me down and hurts Shaun? What if—?”

Quinn stopped as Danse took hold of her shoulders and gave her a little shake.

“Do you really think I'd just let her walk if I thought she was a risk to the Prydwen? She won't be going after anyone. Don't worry.”

What did he mean by that? He’d talked her out of action or put her down? Quinn decided she didn't want to know. If Danse said there was no risk, she trusted his word. She nodded for him to carry on.

“I think the thing that helped the most is knowing someone out there might have answers. Watts named Doctor Amari as Railroad.”

Quinn vaguely remembered the name. “From Goodneighbor?”

“The very same. She gave me my new identity before I was taken to the Capital Wasteland. She can tell me where I came from, who I used to be.”

“But…” Quinn paused, trying to word her fears delicately. “If you find the old you, will you go back to him? Would he want to stay with me?”

Danse blinked and Quinn knew instantly he hadn't considered this.

“Never mind,” she said quickly. “If you want to go, we'll go. Anything that comes afterwards we'll handle. Besides, Amari might be able to help me.”

“Help _you?”_

Quinn didn't reply.

_The child synth can't age, you know._

The knowledge of what she had learned when Quinn had first gone to the Institute burned in her mind. She had been ignoring it—not consciously of course, but with all the distress in her life as of late, Shaun’s eternal childhood had been pushed to the back of her thoughts. Quinn hadn't considered the consequences when she’d taken him, hadn't even _remembered._ Now the facility was gone, and she faced the prospect of an immortal boy, watching her wither away while he remained. And if Shaun couldn't age, neither could Danse.

 Unless…

“I can't age?” Danse said as she finished the explanation of her fears.

“I don't know for sure,” Quinn replied, sounding calmer than she felt. “I know Shaun couldn't because he was a prototype. But you're different to him. Institute details were always sketchy on the matter, and it wouldn't make sense for Gen 3’s not to age. What good is an infiltration unit if it can't age?”

“But we're not sure if I ever was an infiltration unit,” Danse replied dully. He glanced up at her, suddenly looking scared—it was an expression that didn't suit his face. “I don't want to end up like the detective. I don't want to wander the wasteland, watching everyone I care about pass by me like ghosts while I just...linger.”

Quinn didn't know how to respond to that, so she stayed quiet. Then an idea struck her.

“Father might have changed Shaun’s programming,” she said, trying not to get carried away with her hope. “I told Father it was wrong Shaun couldn't age. Maybe he…”

It felt important to make the distinction between the two Shauns, even if she had to resort to titles for the time being.

Danse looked as if he was struggling not to cling to the idea too quickly as well. His voice cracked as he said, “Amari could check, maybe?”

“Yes.” Quinn swallowed, her mouth dry and sticky. She didn't want to imagine what it would mean if nothing had changed with Shaun, but equally dreaming on the chance Amari presented was dangerous. Quinn settled for neutrality—frustrating and nerve wracking, but the safest choice.

“A family trip to Goodneighbor then?” she joked weakly.

“Family?” Danse asked, looking puzzled.

Quinn nodded. “Whatever happens.” She placed a light kiss on his cheek.

Danse’s face went blank, his hand reaching up to touch the skin her lips had brushed against. His face didn't light up immediately—it was a slow sunrise on an icy morning, the gentle beams breaking through and banishing the cold until everything dazzled.

“Family,” Danse repeated, looking as if he’d never dared to own such a word before. His smile broadened. “Whatever happens.”

* * *

Luck was entirely on their side on the way to Goodneighbor. Or maybe, Quinn thought, the Commonwealth was done with shitting on her for the time being, choosing to pick on someone else instead. However, the reason for their ease of passage quickly became apparent as they drew closer to Diamond City and saw Brotherhood flags mingled in with the usual green.

Quinn swore and ducked down, eyeing the street for a few minutes, a tight fear in her chest. Why were they so close?

Danse answered her unspoken question. “Friendly trade relations was always the end goal, and with the Institute gone, the Brotherhood will be welcome almost anywhere.”

Almost was right. Quinn knew damn well Hancock wouldn't be opening his doors to Maxson’s cronies anytime soon.

That might also include her.

“But I suspect this is only a supply drop,” Danse went on. “With any luck, we'll benefit from the local clearout without any actual encounters from the soldiers.”

Quinn could tell he was trying to reassure himself more than her. He’d never really gone into detail over what would happen if they got into a fight with the Brotherhood. Obviously he’d kill them, but at what cost to himself...she wasn't sure.

Keeping a close eye on the streets, the three of them slowly made their way to Goodneighbor. Mercifully, they didn’t encounter a Brotherhood patrol and reached Hancock’s town without incident. The guards looked Quinn up and down, before nodding and returning to their patrols.

_Well, at least Hancock hasn’t barred me yet._

Quinn kept a tight grip on Shaun as they walked towards the Memory Den, watching the resident junkies and Triggermen with an edge of wariness. For all Hancock’s talk of freedom, the only person she trusted here was Hancock himself. There was no order, just loosely contained chaos that was a spark away from exploding.

Strange then that when she had first visited Goodneighbor, the lawlessness had suited her just fine—nothing like burying yourself in alcohol and god knows what else to smother heartbreak. Now it made her nervous. Danse’s influence, she suspected. He hated the place far more than she did and scowled at every person that drew near.

Even one of Hancock’s guards hesitated at Danse’s glare. He took a step forward and tilted his hat up so that the shadow fell away from his withered face. Shaun audibly gasped, and it occurred to Quinn he’d probably never seen a ghoul before. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze as she explained why the man looked the way he did. The guard frowned with puzzlement but waited patiently for her to finish.

Shaun stared at the ghoul for a moment. “Does it hurt?”

The guard blinked. “What?”

“Being all wrinkly. Does it hurt?”

“I, uh...no?” He shook his head, clearly trying to get back on track as he turned to Quinn. “Mayor Hancock wants to see you.”

She sensed Danse bristling beside her, and quickly rested her hand on his arm to stop him putting his foot in the matter. “Tell the mayor I’ve found my son and I’ve gone to see Doctor Amari. If he still needs to speak with me, then I’ll gladly go to his office after she’s given her assessment.”

“Your son?”

Quinn’s head snapped up to see Hancock leaning over his balcony, smoking a cigarette as he stared hard at Shaun. She nodded, hoping he’d have enough sense not to mention Father.

“He looks like Captain Constitution from the Silver Shroud,” Shaun said loudly, grinning up at Hancock. “Like a pirate.”

Hancock snorted and smirked back at Shaun, before flicking his cigarette down into a nearby puddle. When he looked at Quinn, though, the mirth quickly slipped away. “Get the kid checked out, find yourself a room at the hotel, and then come see me.” He straightened up and walked back inside without another word.

Quinn glanced at Danse, biting her lip. She had no idea what kind of mood Hancock was in. Happy enough to let her wander Goodneighbor and go to Amari apparently, but his welcome was decidedly cool.

“We can worry about it later,” Danse said, finally ceasing his glower as Hancock’s lackey sloped away. “So long as we get what we came here for.”

The Memory Den was the same as ever, warm and hazy in the low lighting, sweet perfume filling Quinn’s head while Irma lounged on a nearby sofa. Quinn felt herself tense, remembering the flirtations Irma had directed at Danse the last time they had been here, but the mistress of the Den took one look at Quinn and gave a knowing smile.

“About time you two hooked up,” she said, laughing when Danse went as red as her dress. “Here for Amari again?”

Both Danse and Quinn nodded, and walked into Amari’s domain as Irma lazily waved them through.

Amari glanced up at the sound of their footsteps and visibly paled. Before Quinn could speak a word, the doctor had dived for a pistol on her workstation and pointed it at them, trembling from head to toe.

“I know why you’re here!” she gasped. “Just...just leave! Go! I don’t treat Brotherhood!”

Something clicked in Quinn’s head. Amari thought they were here to finish the Railroad off. She half considered being truthful about what had happened, when Danse began to speak.

“We weren’t involved in that,” he said, seizing Quinn by the arm and dragging her behind him, alongside Shaun. “We found out I was a synth, and the Brotherhood wanted my head. So we both left.”

Quinn thought it was obvious that Danse was lying through his teeth, but Amari clearly didn’t pick up on it. Her gun lowered slightly as she said, “You...you know?”

“Yes,” Danse replied. “That’s why we’re here...so I can get some answers, and so Quinn can help her son.”

Now Amari looked downright confused. “Her son? Why come specifically to me? There are numerous doctors in the Commonwealth.”

“I’m a synth too,” piped up Shaun at once, not bothering to keep his voice down. Quinn cringed. She hadn’t warned him that synths weren’t regarded kindly in the outside world. Amari wouldn’t care, of course, but anyone could overhear.

“Shh,” Quinn said sharply, and Shaun shut up, thoroughly puzzled. She shot Amari a nervous glance. “It’s a long story, but the bones of it...I need to know if Shaun is capable of aging. Danse as well.”

Amari stared at Shaun and for a moment Quinn wondered if it was because they were talking so openly in front of him about his...condition. She had told Shaun beforehand why they were going to Goodneighbor, but he didn’t seem concerned with the concept of not aging, more interested in his comic books than anything else. Kids were strange.

“A child synth?” Amari breathed, still looking stunned.

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn suddenly remembering she’d had months to get used to the concept. For everyone else, it was new bordering on uncomfortable. “The Director’s...idea. One of a kind.”

Amari picked up on the fact Quinn was trying to be kind to Shaun and Danse, avoiding the obvious truth both of them were little more than experiments for the Institute. The doctor swallowed her bewilderment as she set down her gun on the desk, though she kept a wary eye on Quinn. “It’s not usual for synths to have the capacity to grow old, but not unheard of. I know for a fact Danse can age.”

Quinn heard a sharp intake of breath. After a beat, Danse said, “You're sure about that?”

Amari nodded, her gaze flicking between Danse and Quinn. “You were the first synth I personally saw with the capacity to grow old. I remember it struck me as quite unusual at the time, though I was aware my colleagues in other cells had already reported synths like you coming through. I think the Institute were dabbling in how far they could push synth technology, and I wanted to run tests to see if aging could be passed onto another synth with some modifications.”

“And can they?” Quinn said, thinking of Shaun.

Amari shook her head. “If they’re not created to age, then it can’t be changed. Or at least the Institute never bothered to add anything that could allow a change.”

“Did you run your tests then?” Danse asked quietly.

Once again, Amari shook her head. “You were happy to go through with it. _“Anything to help the others,”_ you said. But Victoria was on a tight schedule and wanted to leave for the Capital Wasteland as soon as possible. When the next synth like you visited my office, I had the chance to explore this added function. After a few years, the newer models lost that very ability. It seems the Institute decided it wasn’t needed, for whatever reason.”

Quinn scowled. She hated how Amari talked about synths like they were little more than computers. The doctor seemed to notice and flushed.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, lowering her eyes. “I try not to get attached to the synths I meet. Not knowing what happens to them, whether they make it or get dragged back...it's too much. All I know is I never see them again. Talking about them impersonally helps me sleep better at night.” Amari smiled nervously. “You're the first, Danse...and you've flourished.”

“Flourished?” Danse’s tone was sharp. “I spent ten years living a lie, culminating in being hunted down by the people I—”

He stopped as Quinn laid her hand on his arm. She saw something angry in his eyes, but it slowly faded into frustration and then weariness. “Sorry. I just have no answers. Which is why I'm here.”

Amari nodded, biting her lip. “I just meant...you have people that care about you. Stability. That's more than I can say about who I used to work with. Synth and human alike.”

Danse grunted in response and waved towards Shaun. “First things first…”

“Ah, yes.” Amari leaned forward, peering at Shaun, who was now looking at the ceiling while opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. Apparently he hadn’t been listening to a word of the conversation.

“I was originally told Shaun would stay like this forever.” Quinn gestured to him, feeling slightly embarrassed at his obvious boredom with the entire meeting. This must have been how her mom felt every time she’d stared off into space whenever family friends visited. “So I talked with one of their...head scientists before the end and insisted that leaving him like that was wrong. I’m hoping the Institute listened to me. I need to know. Please.”

Finally, Amari relaxed. She gave a small smile and nodded, before holding her hand out to Shaun. “Shall we do some tests?”

Shaun perked up at once, abandoning Quinn’s side and bouncing over to Amari. Before he’d even sat down in the nearby chair, he was rattling off questions nineteen to the dozen about synths and things he had learned at the Institute. Had he actually been listening all along?

Quinn glanced at Danse—his expression blatantly said he could only grasp about half of what Shaun was asking. Quinn understood even less.

A small smile crept on Danse’s face. “What a smart kid.”

There was an odd pride in Quinn’s chest at Danse’s words, but it ebbed away as the two of them settled into the nearby waiting chairs. When Amari began to examine Shaun, anxiety took hold. Things between her and Danse were still oddly distant, though the initial wound was patched. All her energy had gone into getting Shaun here, but now he was…

Quinn jumped as Danse’s fingers linked through hers. She turned to him and saw he looked as uncertain as she did. The doubt melted away as she squeezed his hand, before resting her head on his shoulder. For a second, he was tense, and then he pulled his arm away, wrapping it around her and holding her close.

Quinn breathed a slow sigh of relief.

* * *

An hour passed, Quinn basking in Danse’s presence while Shaun continued to talk endlessly. Eventually, though, the doctor moved away from Shaun and over to her terminal.

“I've never seen anything like this…” Amari said, squinting at her computer screen and then glancing at Shaun. He bounced his heels impatiently on the oversized seat of his chair, staring up at the ceiling and blowing raspberries. Amari turned her attention back to the terminal. “He…”

“What?” Quinn sat up straight in her chair, shaking Danse off and digging her nails into her own palms. “What is it?”

“I'm trying to think how best to describe it,” Amari replied. “The simplest way I can say it is...well, Shaun has all the, uh, ‘setup' of a synth that can't age, but something has been added to him to allow him to do so. I've run all the tests on some of his cell samples. This is a new piece of ‘code' for want of a better word, completely brand new. Who did you say you spoke to about his aging?”

“The Director of the Institute, several months ago,” Quinn said faintly, suddenly feeling dizzy. “I told him it was wrong he couldn't age, and the Director...he laughed at me. Thought my concern was quaint.”

“Or endearing,” Amari replied with a bemused smile. “Someone created an entirely new function to fix the problem. A complex procedure, and yet surprisingly simple in its execution.”

“So…?”

“He can age like any other child.”

Quinn would have burst into tears there and then if it hadn’t been for Shaun watching with a worried expression. She blinked rapidly, her mouth stretching into a wide smile, and pulled herself from Danse, throwing herself at her son. He wriggled with embarrassment as she hugged him tight, peppering his cheeks with kisses until they grew hot.

_“Mom!”_

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled, holding Shaun at arm’s length while she beamed at him. “I’m just...happy.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Shaun replied under his breath. “I don’t want to grow old.”

“Oh well,” Quinn said, wiping at her eyes as she let him go and stood up. “Never mind.”

Father had listened to her. _Shaun_ had listened to her. And now this Shaun would have a chance at a proper life, to become an adult, to find love, to raise children of his own, even if they were likely adopted. He’d experience life to the full.

Danse would also grow old...grow old with Quinn. He wouldn’t be left behind, watching her wither away to nothing. After everything she’d done, the world had been kind enough to grant her these blessings. She didn’t deserve them...but then again, maybe this wasn’t a gift for her. Maybe it was a gift for Danse and Shaun.

_Thank you,_ Quinn thought, hoping in some distant afterlife, Father could hear her.

_Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning, as always!
> 
> I've always hated the vagueness of synth aging, and I've always hated that synth Shaun apparently can't age at all. So I set up a way to change this waaaay back around chapter 15 or 16. As for Danse, it's never confirmed or denied, and we're outside of game canon now, so I'm not turning him into the next Nick Valentine.


	62. Trouble on the Homefront

“Mom, I want to do it!”

“I’m not having that woman poke around your head!”

Danse sat at the desk in their Hotel Rexford room, trying to block out the argument between Quinn and Shaun. It seemed the kid could be a real firecracker when he wanted to, just like his mother.

The clash had arisen when Amari mentioned Shaun’s code could be passed onto other Gen 3 synths. Synths that were stuck in limbo while the world moved around them could be blessed with the gift of mortality. All it would require was a small surgery on Shaun to access some of the more complex functions. Danse didn’t fully understand the procedure, but Amari had called ‘minimally invasive surgery.’

Shaun said yes. Quinn instantly said no.

Now here they were, battling it out while Danse tried to keep out of the way. He didn’t really know how he felt about the proposition—true, it would help a lot of synths, and if he couldn’t age himself, he might have been tempted...but Shaun was still a child. What if something went wrong?

Danse opted for tinkering with his gun instead. It provided the best distraction to the raging inferno behind him so far. He could have stayed with Amari and let the two of them argue it out in his absence, but that would have meant letting Quinn and Shaun go back to the hotel alone. While Quinn was perfectly capable of looking after herself, Danse didn’t trust Goodneighbor one bit, and Shaun was the epitome of naive and vulnerable.

_Well, at least he’s stopped cowering every time Quinn raises her voice,_ Danse thought dully as the row went on. Definitely his mother’s son, synth or not.

After half an hour, though, Danse reached the end of his tether. Neither side looked to be relenting, and the shouting was giving him a headache.

“I’m going back to see Amari,” Danse said loudly, checking over his weapon one last time before standing up. “I’ll be back soon.”

If either of them noticed he’d spoken, they didn’t show it.

Danse left the room and sighed, stretching in the corridor before spotting a ghoul glaring at him from one of the adjacent doors.

“Can’t you stop it?” she rasped.

“You want to prod an angry deathclaw, be my guest,” Danse snapped. She scowled as he stalked off towards the stairs, shutting her door with a bang.

His thoughts quickly turned to the discussion with Amari as he made his way to the ground floor of the hotel. He could _age._ The whole thing was a whirlwind, from Quinn suggesting he might be like Valentine, to finding out he was not only a few hours later. He’d barely had time to catch up with himself, that a fundamental part of life—old age—was now so sweet a prospect.

Amari looked unsurprised when he walked into her office.

“I thought you’d be back,” she said, not diverting her attention away from her terminal while she worked. “Has Quinn come to a decision yet?”

Danse shrugged. “She has, but Shaun...doesn’t agree with it.”

Amari laughed, finally catching his eye. “So what do you want to know? I’m guessing you have a lot of questions.”

He pulled up a chair and sat down on the other side of her desk, fidgeting. There was a question, one that had been troubling him ever since he’d rescued Billy from the fridge and met the Peabodys.

“Can...can I have children?” Danse stared fixedly at his hands.

Amari didn’t answer immediately, but the ringing silence as she stopped typing gave him his answer before she spoke. She watched him for a few seconds and then sighed. “I’m sorry but...no. All synths are infertile.”

“I see.” He didn’t know how he felt. He’d never really thought about children before—everything in his life had been consumed by Brotherhood. Things had changed. It seemed important now, and to have the concept snatched away before he could ever truly grasp it hurt in a strange way. Not a sting, but a dull, deep ache.

Still, since learning what he was, Danse had suspected this would be the case.

“I’m sorry,” Amari repeated, biting her lip.

“It’s fine,” he said flatly, continuing to look at his hands. After a moment, he said, “Who was I before…” Danse tailed off, recalling Quinn’s comment. If he remembered, would he become a different person? He shrugged. “Never mind.”

Amari straightened up in her chair and gave him a sympathetic smile. “You can ask whatever you want.”

Danse shook his head and explained as best he could. “I’m afraid of bringing that person back. My life isn’t perfect, but I’m happy with what I have, and...and I don’t want to lose what I feel for Quinn.”

“It’s a common misconception that a personality is added to a synth later,” Amari said, her smile shifting to something warmer. “But that isn’t the case. Synths all have their own unique personalities. I have been told on good authority that after a synth is created, they’re monitored very closely before being assigned their roles. Certain personalities benefit certain roles...take coursers for example. Their mannerisms aren’t taught.”

“But if I went through a mindwipe process…”

“There are ways to alter a synth’s personality, but it’s a drastic measure with permanent, damaging results. The same way great trauma can alter a non-synth’s brain activity.”

“Like...brain damage?”

“Something like that. It’s an extremely risky thing to do, and even if it’s successful, that synth can never go back. The mindwipe procedure only alters memory, nothing else. _I promise._ If you love Quinn now, you would have loved her back then. You’ve always been _you.”_ Amari sat back in her chair. “You’re almost the same man I met nearly fifteen years ago. Nothing will change that.”

Danse leaned forward, his interest piqued. He’d never really been certain how old he was, even when he thought he was human.  The perception of an empty childhood, dragged up from the dirt into something more. When had he been born? Who had been his parents? Of course, now he had answers, and the result was only more questions. “Fifteen years?”

Amari nodded. “You looked a lot younger then. Had a lot more fire about you. Now you seem...calmer. Grounded.”

Danse frowned, trying to remember Rivet city and the early days of the Brotherhood. Definitely a drinker—he and Cutler used to be the bane of Rivet City with their prolonged sessions in the Muddy Rudder. Even as soldiers they’d been quick to the drink after shift, nursing Cutler’s grief over his mother. She’d passed away a while before they’d signed up, but the wound remained open for Cutler.

Had he been more intense back then? Danse had often been commended or criticised for his beliefs—accused of being zealous and loyal in equal measure. If his behaviour had toned down significantly since his younger years, how bad had he actually been?

Or maybe the loss of the Brotherhood and their dogmatic views had stripped away his fanaticism. It occurred to him that he was less concerned with upholding the rules of such-and-such these days and just focusing on living his life. He couldn’t have been that unbearable in the past, though. Cutler had liked him after all. As had Quinn.

Danse smiled at Amari, the pain bittersweet. “Tell me everything you can.”

* * *

The corridors were quiet by the time Danse returned to the hotel, and for a moment he feared something had happened. But when he wrenched open the door, chest tight with anticipation, he found both Quinn and Shaun asleep on the same bed, locked in each other’s arms. He smiled, feeling happy, if somewhat drained from his time with the doctor, and carefully shut the door. Quinn stirred and woke.

“You two finally stopped arguing?” he asked, setting his rifle down on the desk and leaning against it.

“Yeah.” She played with Shaun’s hair a little. “We came to an...agreement. That I would think about it. He seemed happy with that.”

“Are you really going to think on it, or did you just say that to stop the bickering?”

“I’m really going to think on it.” By the look on her face, Danse sensed she was telling the truth. Slowly, she slipped free of Shaun and sat up. “Get what you needed from Amari?”

“Yes. There wasn’t much. Just my reasons for leaving the Institute, and what I was like back then. She described me as fiery and impatient.”

Quinn snorted. “Impatient? Can’t _imagine_ why she’d think that.”

Danse bristled with indignation. “I’ve shown plenty of patience towards you.”

She grinned. “Your patience is selective. You don’t suffer fools gladly or in silence.”

“Yes, well,” Danse replied airily, “some people are beyond help. I like to think I can identify that quickly.” Her grin widened and he rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. Point taken, though you’ll have to forgive me for not recognising it standing next to a personified bomb.”

Quinn blinked and then burst out laughing, before pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle the noise. Shaun mumbled and turned over but didn’t wake. Danse grinned back, his heart skittering a little. He loved making her laugh, and it’d been some time since he had. The recent frostiness clinging to their relationship was finally thawing out, and how he longed to kiss her.

She seemed to be thinking the same thing, because she got to her feet and started to walk across the room, a hungry look in her eye. A knock at the door stopped her in her tracks, as well as waking Shaun. He jumped and sat up sharply, his fingers digging into the mattress.

Quinn frowned and marched over to the door, wrenching it open. A ghoul in a grubby suit stood at the threshold, lighting a cigarette. Danse recognised it as the same one who had greeted them upon entering Goodneighbor.

“The mayor’s been more than patient,” he rasped, puffing a cloud of smoke at her. “Hancock’s place _now.”_

Danse saw red, but before he could take a step forward, Quinn knocked the ghoul’s cigarette from his mouth and grabbed the front of his jacket.

“Hey—!”

“You blow that shit in my face again,” Quinn snarled, “and I’ll stick the next one you light down your dickhole. _Got it?”_

“What’s a dickhole?” Shaun piped up.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” she said, not turning around. The ghoul tried to pull away and she gave him a firm shake.

“You little—” he said, reaching for something in his pocket, but stopped when he realised Danse had already drawn his own pistol and pointed it at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shaun flinch and felt a pang of guilt.

“Hancock’ll hear about this!” the ghoul gasped.

“Good! I imagine he could use a laugh!” Quinn shoved him away and turned to Danse. “I have to go. Can you…” She stopped, suddenly looking worried.

“I’ll keep an eye on Shaun,” Danse replied gently, though his gun was still aimed at the thug. He didn’t like the idea of Quinn going alone, but the less influence Hancock had on Shaun, the better. “Are you going to be alright with him?”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, picking up her combat rifle and slinging it over her shoulder. “Hancock wants to talk, which means he has no interest in killing me. And if this idiot upsets that delicate balance, I imagine he’ll be seen to before the night is out.” She shot the ghoul a nasty look. “So save the whole reaching into your pocket shit. Whatever you got in there, you won’t use it unless you want to piss off your boss.”

“How the fuck do you know?” the ghoul spat, trying to jeer but looking nervous instead. “You don’t run this town.”

“And neither do you. But Hancock does, and I _do_ know him. Well enough that he’d give me the courtesy of a conversation first. So tell him I’m on my way.”

Danse waited until the ghoul left before holstering his gun. He turned to Shaun, wondering if he should say anything, and saw Quinn crouched down at his side, holding him in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, honey,” she said, kissing him on his head.

“Were you going to kill him?” Shaun asked, and it took a moment for Danse to realise the question was aimed at him.

“Uh.” Danse cleared his throat, hesitating. How long were they going to hide the nature of the wasteland from Shaun? But then he saw Quinn give a slow nod, and he understood the meaning. No more secrets. “If I thought he was going to hurt you or your mother, then yes.”

“But...why would he…?”

“This isn’t the Institute, sweetie,” Quinn said. “Things are dangerous up here. You need to be careful who you trust.”

Shaun’s eyes dimmed a little at this. “Oh. Okay.”

Quinn looked worried, but time wasn’t on her side. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. I just need to speak to the pirate man. Captain, uh...thingy.”

“Captain Constitution,” Shaun replied quietly. Quinn’s frown increased, but she planted another kiss on his head and then left the room.

Danse stood over Shaun for a good ten seconds, the awkwardness mounting while the boy stared at his own knees. What was he supposed to do? Or say? Eventually Danse decided on his most trusted tactic: he retreated to the desk and continued working on his rifle.

The silence was soon filled with the metallic clinks and scrapes as Danse slowly took apart his gun and started cleaning each individual part. Earlier he had only been doing light, external modifications—attempting anything else while Quinn and Shaun were arguing would have been futile. He needed his concentration.

Danse was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t notice Shaun had moved until the boy was standing right next to him.

“Mr. Danse?”

Danse flinched, nearly dropping the component in his hand. He set it on the table and looked at Shaun, forcing a smile. “Yes?”

“Can I watch?”

Danse was thrown by the question. “Um...yes? Grab yourself a seat.”

Shaun obeyed, dragging a chair almost as big as he was towards the desk and settling down into it. At first he was quiet, his eyes fixed on everything Danse did. But after a few minutes, the boy’s willpower broke and the questions began to pour in.

Why was Danse cleaning the parts? How did guns get dirty? What happened if a gun jammed? Could it explode?

Danse answered as best he could, and Shaun’s questions multiplied. Danse began to show him the various modifications he had installed in the past, what they did, and why they were there. Then he showed Shaun the newest one—a replacement trigger, because his was starting to stick with age—and began to take the boy through the step by step process of switching the old one out for the new.

Shaun listened in silence for some time, before launching into his most difficult questions yet.

“You know mom said this place is dangerous?”

“Yes?” Danse replied, trying to get the worn out trigger free from the casing.

“Why did she destroy the Institute and bring me here then?”

Danse groaned inwardly. He wasn’t qualified to explain this kind of thing. This required someone like Stephen or Vivian Cooper—firm, but understanding of children’s needs. There was a pang in his chest as he remembered they were dead. He fiddled with the gun to buy himself some time.

“The world isn’t black and white,” Danse said after a few seconds, setting the gun down. “Not everything is good or evil. Sometimes things that seem good are actually bad, and sometimes it’s the opposite. The Institute was a safe place on the surface, but they did bad things.”

“They made us,” Shaun said, tapping his fingers on the desk as he swung his legs. “I don’t see how that’s bad.”

“They experimented on people,” Danse replied. He wasn’t sure if he should be telling Shaun this, but it felt right. “Hurt people. Took people away from their families. They stole the Director away from your mother when he was just a baby and killed her husband. And they made monsters out of the people they took and then sent them back to the wasteland. That’s partly why it’s so dangerous. There didn’t used to be such a bad mutant problem in the Commonwealth.”

Shaun frowned as he took this in. “So...like when the Mechanist kidnapped all the good citizens of Boston and started turning them into his robot minions?”

Danse blinked. “What?”

“It was in an issue of the Unstoppables. The Silver Shroud had to fight them with the Mistress of Mystery, and in the end…” Shaun paused. “You don’t mind spoilers?”

Oh. Comic books. Danse shook his head. “I don’t mind. Carry on.”

“Well, the Silver Shroud was kinda sad because he had to fight the robots and destroy them, but the Mistress of Mystery said it was the right thing to do because they were too far gone. And the Mechanist said that he changed them so they could live forever and that it was a good thing, but the Shroud said he’d interfered with people’s lives and had to be stopped. So the Mechanist thought he was being good, but he really wasn’t. Is it like that?”

Danse didn’t understand a single word that Shaun had just said, but it sounded along the lines of the point he was trying to get across. He took a gamble and nodded. “Yes, just like that.”

Shaun’s face crumpled. “So everything I knew was a lie. Everyone I trusted there was bad, and I didn’t see it.”

“I know the feeling,” Danse replied, leaning back in his seat. But then he thought of Haylen and smiled. He turned to Shaun. “Not everyone would have been bad. I bet lots of the people in the Institute thought they were doing good, just like you did. Quinn made sure people got out. So I think all the good people would have escaped.”

Shaun bit his lip and then after a beat of concentration, smiled. “Yeah, I think so too. They were all really smart there.” He glanced at Danse’s rifle. “So when you pointed your gun at that man…”

“As I said, just protecting you and your mother.” Danse threw caution to the wind. “Like the Silver Shroud. He doesn’t want to hurt people, but sometimes you have to, to help the ones you love. There’s a big world out there, and not everyone in it is nice. But your mother will teach you to know who is good and who is bad.”

“Will you teach me as well?” Shaun asked.

Danse hadn’t been expecting _that._ “I, uh, well...if you want. I mean, your mom is the one who calls the shots, but if she doesn’t mind…”

“Are you mom’s boyfriend?”

Like Quinn, Shaun had a natural talent for dragging Danse straight out of his comfort zone. He could feel his cheeks blazing already. “Uh, well—you see—I guess that—um—has your mother told you this?”

“No.” Shaun grinned, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. _“You like my mom!”_

“Anyway, we’re getting distracted from the task at hand,” Danse said loudly, his face positively molten as he picked up his rifle. “We need to finish this up as soon as possible. Leaving work unfinished is poor practice and—”

“When we get back to Sanctuary, can you teach me about power armour?” Shaun interrupted. “Mom said you liked power armour. That you’re really good at it. I like your set better than mom’s. It’s cooler.”

Danse blinked. “Your, uh, mother talks about me?”

“Yeah! All the time, when I ask her. She seems happier when she does. She said you were really nice, even if you’re grumpy sometimes. But she said you knew more about power armour than she did. How does it work? Can you show me how to fix it one day? Why is yours different to mom’s?”

Danse had never met a child so inquisitive in his life. The squires—although curious—knew to keep talk to a minimum when on duty, and had always held him with an air of awe that prevented any direction conversation. Ever Arthur in his younger days had been a quiet child, direct and to the point. Danse had liked that about him. After Cutler, he hadn’t been much of a talker either.

_I’ve changed so much,_ Danse thought as he listened to Shaun’s excited chatter.

Shaun’s questions had their own charm, though. It reminded Danse that every synth’s personality was different. It also reminded him that Shaun was not the same as this ‘Father’ Quinn had mention—a well-spoken man who plainly didn’t comprehend the hurt he inflicted on others. A man of great knowledge, who understood everything about the world except human nature.

Danse answered everything Shaun asked, his own enthusiasm for power armour shining through. Shaun grinned at him.

“Hey!” he said suddenly, sitting up straight in his chair. “I wanted to ask you something, Mr. Danse. I don’t really want to ask mom yet. I think it might upset her. Plus I don’t think she’d understand. She’s a human.”

“Oh?”

“I was trying to think of a new name for myself, but I’m a bit stuck. You said you picked your name. How did you do it?”

Danse hesitated. He couldn’t remember the reasons for his own name, but if Amari was telling the truth and he was the same person, he would have picked it because it meant something to him. He voiced this to Shaun, paused again, and then decided to elaborate. “For example, Elder Maxson and I both had a liking for the mythology of King Arthur, and he chose the name of the Prydwen based on that.”

Shaun frowned with deep thought.

“There are many great names from that legend,” Danse went on. “The Knight of the Round Table, for one, who were King Arthur’s most trusted comrades. Sir Lancelot is the most well known, but there was also Sir Gareth, known for his chivalry, or Sir Galahad who—”

“I like Charlie,” said Shaun, his face brightening up.

“I—what?”

“Charlie,” Shaun repeated, his smile wide now.

Danse was confused. Hadn’t they been talking about knights?

_No, you were talking about knights,_ he reminded himself, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He’d let himself get carried away instead of listening to what Shaun wanted. Thankfully, the boy hadn’t noticed.

“Who is Charlie?” Danse asked, trying to brush aside his returning awkwardness.

“Charles Allard, also known as Charlie Allard,” Shaun said. When Danse continued to blink blankly at him, Shaun rolled his eyes. “The alter ego of the Silver Shroud!”

“Oh.” He hadn’t realised the boy’s fondness for the comics went so far. Still, on second thought, it was definitely better than some of _his_ suggestions. Danse smiled. “I think that sounds like a great name.”

Shaun beamed, but then his expression faltered. “Do you think I should ask mom first?”

Danse shook his head. “No. This is your life and your name. Only you can choose it...Charlie.”

* * *

“She threatened to shove a cigarette down my dick for trying to bring her here!”

“Because _you_ blew smoke in my face, you ignorant fuck!”

Hancock spluttered with laughter. Both Quinn and the lackey turned to stare at him, and he shrugged apologetically. His chuckles died away, a frown creeping over his features as he turned his head towards the other ghoul. “I only asked you escort her to me for a conversation. She might settle for one cigarette, but be rude like that again and I’ll use the whole fucking pack.”

The ghoul paled. “Yes, Mayor Hancock.”

“Good. Thanks for bringing her here. Get back to your normal patrol.”

The ghoul mumbled something and quickly disappeared. Hancock waited until his guard had left, and then called over to the open door that led to the balcony. “Mac, ready when you are.”

To Quinn’s greatest surprise, MacCready walked through the door and into the room, a cigarette jammed between his teeth. He scowled at her and leaned against the wall without a word.

“What are you—?” Quinn began, but Hancock cut across her.

“Valentine said you had a hand in taking down the Railroad. And that you helped the Brotherhood build a war machine. Is it true?”

Quinn felt her stomach squirm. Nick must have told the two of them about their argument. “Nick’s in Goodneighbor?”

“Yeah, he is. Layin’ low here for a while since the Brotherhood’s crawling all over Diamond City. We all heard the rumours, but Nick went to speak to you, and when he came back, he said you admitted it. I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“It’s not as simple as that—”

“Answer the fucking question. Is it true?”

“Yes!”

Both Hancock and MacCready stared at her, equally stunned. MacCready was the first to speak, his voice taking on a slight tremor. “I know you were just following orders, but did you really have to kill all of those people because Maxson said so?”

“That’s rich, coming from a merc,” Quinn snapped, and MacCready blanched. “Since when did either of you give a shit about synths or the Railroad? Or are you just pissed off because the Brotherhood did it?”

“It’s because _you_ did it,” Hancock snarled, wearing an ugly expression on his face. “Railroad never hurt anyone that didn’t have it coming to them...though I guess we can add a couple more names to that list now.” He stared pointedly at her.

That did it. Quinn slammed her fist down on the cupboard she was standing next to with a loud bang. Both MacCready and Hancock flinched, though only MacCready tried to conceal it.

“I’m fucking _sick_ of people jumping to conclusions,” she hissed, before shooting MacCready a sharp look. “Do you really think I’d go on a murderous rampage because Maxson told me to?” Quinn directed her murderous glare towards Hancock. “Or without considering every other alternative first?”

MacCready looked taken aback, but Hancock rose to the challenge.

“Alright, Miss Brotherhood. Tell me what really happened and I’ll be the judge whether it justifies an army wiping out a tiny group hiding under a church.”

Quinn indulged him, not bothering to hide her ire. The recollection was to the point and unkind in its telling. She’d had enough of recounting the same thing, over and over, enduring scowls and sneers from people who hadn’t _been there._

When Quinn finished, her whole body trembled. She was angry, yes, but she was also tired. If they didn’t accept this, then it was no longer her concern—she couldn’t keep chasing people, begging them to see her side of things. She had a son to take care of now.

Once again, MacCready was the first to speak. “I would have picked the kids.”

This startled her somewhat. She’d been expecting disownment, the way Nick had done, but MacCready looked equally worn out, fumbling into his pocket for another cigarette and lighting it with steady hands.

“I don’t…” Quinn licked her lips. He hadn’t elaborated. Was he still her friend?

MacCready breathed out a jet of smoke from his nose in a way that reminded her of Rachel. “Not much more to say really. Sometimes there isn’t a choice. I saved Duncan’s life over Lucy’s.” He suddenly looked very distant. “No choice in that.”

She took that to mean they were good, so Quinn glanced towards Hancock, who hadn’t said a word. He was staring ahead with a deep scowl on his face. Then it slipped away and he rubbed his forehead as he hissed, _“Fuck.”_

“What?” Quinn’s stomach tightened, waiting for his verdict. His hand dropped to his lap and he turned to her, still looking angry, though something deeper was mingled into his expression now.

“Here I was, thinking this was straightforward. Railroad good. Brotherhood assholes. The way it’s always been.” He sighed. “Why can’t anything be fucking simple?”

“I know what you mean.” Slowly, she sank into the chair opposite him, watching his reaction carefully. He didn’t stop her, and after a few seconds, reached into his jacket and produced three jet inhalers. He tossed one each to her and MacCready, and then cracked open the last, jamming it into his mouth and taking a long, dragging hit. MacCready glanced between his cigarette and the jet, and then stubbed the cigarette out on the wall.

Quinn smiled, but let the jet lie in her lap, waiting until her two friends had made their way through their chems. Hancock still hadn’t given his opinion, but things looked promising.

Eventually, he leaned back, his eyes unfocused. With what seemed like a great effort, he raised his head up again and squinted at her. “So...you explained the Railroad. And the news on the radio is the Institute is gone, with the help of a giant robot, or so Travis says. Now of course I’m all for this, because fuck the Institute, but do you realise what you’ve handed Maxson?”

Quinn nodded. “That’s why it’s going to be sabotaged.”

Hancock dropped his jet inhaler with a clunk. “Sabotaged? How the fuck you gonna do that?”

“Not me. Doctor Madison Li.” She quickly explained Li’s position with the Institute and the Brotherhood, and her equal displeasure towards both of them.

“You think she’ll really do it?” MacCready asked, who joined them in the seating area once the chems took hold.

“I know she will. She’s got a decade-old grudge with them, and she feels taken advantage of. Li’s smart enough to do it without getting caught, and thorough enough that even Ingram won’t be able to repair the damage.”

“The Brotherhood brought that thing back from smouldering scrap,” MacCready said. “What could Li do that’s worse than that?”

“They needed Li to get Prime back to working condition. If she wants that thing disabled permanently, she’ll find a way. And I _know_ she wants it disabled.”

Hancock seemed satisfied by this and nodded. But then his expression shifted, his eyes widening as if he had just remembered something. Suddenly he looked deeply uncomfortable, almost ashamed. Dropping his gaze from Quinn, he carefully put out his next question. “About the Institute…did your kid…?”

“Went down with it,” Quinn replied without emotion.

“And the Brotherhood helped?”

She nodded.

“Well, at least they’re good for something.”

To her own great surprise, Quinn laughed. “Do you forgive me?”

Hancock sighed and took his hat off, rubbing the back of his head. “Look, I can’t say I’m happy for what happened to the Railroad, but...I get it.” He shrugged and put his hat back on. “I believe you. And I trust you. So long as the Brotherhood isn’t getting the upper hand on the rest of the Commonwealth, there ain’t nothing to forgive in my book.”

She felt stunned, but turned to MacCready. “Mac?”

“Heck, of course I _‘forgive’_ you, if you wanna call it that,” MacCready replied, rolling his eyes.

“Thanks.” Quinn knew she should feel elated. They didn’t hate her. But the resolution just made her think of Nick.

Hancock frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Quinn didn’t reply immediately. “I spoke to Nick before I came to Goodneighbor. He asked me what had happened with the Railroad and I told him the truth. He...didn’t take it as well as you two. I get the feeling he’s not going to be speaking to me again.”

MacCready looked disinterested—he had always seemed slightly uncomfortable with Nick—but Hancock shook his head. “Old Valentine just needs some time. I’d probably be the same if it involves ghouls, y’know?” There was a short pause, and then he grinned. “Besides...I don’t think anyone could stay mad at you. No more Institute. Didn’t think I’d ever see the day. You did damn good.”

Quinn smiled. Despite what it had cost her, she couldn’t help but agree with him. “I did, didn’t I?”

There was a long, comfortable silence. She offered her unused jet to Hancock, and he took it with a smile. As he leaned forward, though, he paused, frowning. Something had obviously just occurred to him. “The boy you brought into town...that’s the synth copy?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw MacCready straighten up in his seat. Quinn sighed. This was going to be a long, difficult discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my wonderful beta! Not much to say this week other than whoops sorry the chapter was late. Work has been extremely stressful to the point where I pretty much had a meltdown last month. The boss took note, helped me out and switched my shifts around, and the result has been chaos as far as writing is concerned.
> 
> Either way, thanks for all the feedback! One day I will make time to reply...maybe.
> 
> Oh! Some trivia for you all. I did a bit of digging on The Silver Shroud, and it looks like he was based off a real old-timey radio hero, The Shadow. His alter-ego name was 'Kent Allard.' I didn't like the name 'Kent' but I thought it would be cool if The Silver Shroud had some sort of link to its real world counterpart. Hence, Charlie Allard. :D


	63. Date Night

The explanation for Shaun was met with ringing silence. Hancock had been nodding throughout, looking sympathetic, if somewhat confused. MacCready, though, remained icy, his expression not changing. Now they were both simply sitting there as Quinn waited for their judgement.

“Not gonna pretend I understand how this works,” Hancock said, rubbing his face. He smiled at her. “But if you say he’s your son, that’s good enough for me. The kid didn’t choose to be made.”

MacCready shrugged.

Quinn felt her heart sink. “What’s wrong?”

He fixed her with a dark look. “I ain’t comfortable with it, that’s all. Replacing Shaun with a synth.” He got to his feet.

Quinn scrambled up from her seat, glaring. “He isn’t a fucking replacement. What was I supposed to do? Leave a little boy to burn with the Institute?”

MacCready shrugged, avoiding her eye. “Whatever. See ya.” He strode from the room without a backward glance.

Quinn groaned, her anger quickly turning to weariness. “Can I go just one fucking day without something going wrong?”

Hancock sighed and got up, putting his arm around her. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” She leaned her head against him. “Just if it’s not the Railroad pissing off my friends, it’s my son.”

“Think he’ll say anything?”

“No. He knows he owes me Duncan’s life. That much will keep him quiet, whatever he thinks of me.”

Quinn didn’t bother to add that she wouldn’t have let MacCready leave if she’d thought otherwise. The thought hurting another friend was painful, and ultimately Quinn trusted him, even if he did have a problem with synths. She just hadn’t realised how deep his dislike went.

“Ignore him,” Hancock said. “He just needs to wrap his head round it. Gotta say, it’s not an easy thing to accept. But I’m willing to make the effort.”

Quinn wrapped her arm around Hancock’s waist and gave him a grateful squeeze before letting her arm drop. “I better get back to the hotel. God knows how Danse is coping with a child.”

Hancock snorted. “You let the tin can babysit?”

“Yeah,” Quinn laughed, remembering the old nickname that Danse hated so much. “He’s changed a lot, you know. Less brainwashed soldier and more responsible parent.”

Parent. She hadn’t meant to describe him as such, but the word slipped out. Hancock turned to her, perking a non-existent eyebrow.

“That serious, huh?” He flashed his trademark wicked grin. “I heard that you two _finally_ hooked up. So what’s it gonna be? Marriage? Happily ever after?”

Quinn blushed, but smiled back. “I don’t know about marriage. I’ve done that once already.” The happy feeling slipped away as quickly as it had arrived, and she felt Hancock’s hold on her tighten. Then her smile returned, softer this time, deeper. “Maybe one day I’ll ask him about it, when everything’s settled. See what he thinks.”

Hancock turned, seizing both of her shoulders so she faced him properly. He stared at her with a shrewd expression for a few seconds. “Now ain’t that something? My girl’s in love.”

Quinn didn’t bother to deny it.

* * *

The walk across Goodneighbor to the hotel was a quiet affair—Hancock escorted her back for old time’s sake, his arm linked in with hers. Quinn enjoyed the company, knowing she had managed to salvage at least one of her friends at the end of this entire mess, but she couldn’t help think that somewhere in town were MacCready and Nick.

Things must have gotten really bad in Diamond City for Nick to leave. The last time the Brotherhood had been on a supply run there, he had point blank refused to go, stating he would weather the storm instead. Had the loss of the Railroad shook his confidence? Or were the Brotherhood becoming more aggressive in the wake of their victory?

She and Hancock parted ways at the entrance to the hotel. He hugged her tight, planting a quick peck on her cheek before they broke apart.

“Have fun,” he said with a wink, and then left.

Quinn rolled her eyes and headed inside, wondering what chaos awaited her, and whether Shaun was still upset from the gun being drawn earlier. She supposed she should be more bothered by the scene that had unfolded on the doorstep, but it felt like just another part of life at this point.

What she wasn’t expecting was to find the entire room had become an extension of Danse’s work table. Components were laid out neatly on the bed, the gun in pieces all over the desk while modified armour was in strategic piles by the walls. Both Danse and Shaun were laid out on the floor, their legs crossed behind them as they worked on a standard metal chestplate together. They looked up with matching guilty expressions as she walked in.

Quinn blinked. “What the hell is this mess?”

“Uh, well,” began Danse. “I was working on my gun and, uh—”

“—I wanted to know about power armour,” interjected Shaun.

“—but we didn’t have power armour to hand, so I decided to upgrade a normal piece of armour just so he could get to grips with it—”

“—and then I asked if—”

“What have I said about finishing a project before moving onto the next one?” Quinn thundered, though she knew damn well she had never said anything of the sort in her life. Still, if she stated it with enough conviction, maybe they wouldn’t remember that little fact. “Clean this up now!”

Both Danse and Shaun leapt to their feet and hurriedly tidied away their mess while Quinn loomed over them, her hands on her hips, trying not to laugh. To Quinn’s surprise, Danse let Shaun put his gun back together by himself, though she noticed that he kept a sharp eye on the process. When Shaun had finished, Danse picked up the rifle, checked over Shaun’s work, and then ruffled his hair.

“Perfect work, Charlie.”

Shaun grinned at Danse. Quinn frowned.

“Charlie?”

The two of them glanced at her, the guilty expressions returning instantly. Shaun looked away, fidgeting and shuffling his feet. Danse crouched down next to him and gave a gentle nudge.

“Go on. Introduce yourself.” He shot Quinn a strange look, as if he was preparing her for something.

“Mom,” Shaun said, still not meeting her eye, “I wanna be called Charlie now.”

“Oh.” The first question on her lips was _‘why?’_ but the look Danse was still giving her kept it at bay. She felt slightly numb—how had he picked a new name so soon? And why did she care so much?

Shaun bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Mom. I should have asked if you were okay with it.”

Danse opened his mouth to say something, but Quinn got there first.

“No.” She strode over to him, dropped to her knees, and pulled Shaun into a hug. “It’s your name. You don’t need my permission.”

Shaun went rigid in her arms and then suddenly clung tightly to her. “Thanks, Mom.” His voice sounded choked, and when they broke apart, he was wiping fiercely at his eyes.

“Why Charlie?” Quinn asked, blinking to stop herself getting weepy as well. “Did Danse help you with it?”

“He really didn’t need my help,” Danse muttered, his face the colour of beetroot.

“Charlie Allard from the Silver Shroud,” Shaun said proudly.

Quinn had to laugh. Kids and their comic books. Well, at least there wouldn’t be some snotty suburban mom putting her nose up at the fact her son was named after a fictional character. She wiped her eyes, disguising her tears for mirth, and smiled at her son.

Charlie beamed back.

“Anyway, it’s time for bed.” Quinn pointed to the other bedroom down the darkened corridor. Charlie shrank away a little.

“Can you read me a story first?” He chewed his lip nervously. “The dark’s just a little...scary.”

“Sure thing, kiddo.” She stood up, offering her hand to him. He took it and she led him away, tucking him into bed and wracking her brains for a good story. The only one that came to mind was the Three Billy Goats Gruff that her dad used to read to her. The version she had taken from his old apartment was in her bag at Sanctuary, though. Even after grabbing all the essentials before fleeing the Prydwen, that and her photograph of Nate were the things she just couldn’t leave behind.

In the end, she made up a wasteland edition, replacing goats with brahmin and trolls with super mutants. Charlie enjoyed it at any rate, and when she’d finished, Quinn stayed a little while until he drifted off to sleep.

“You handled that surprisingly well,” Danse said, when she returned to the main room.

“Handled what?” Quinn said lightly, knowing full well what he was referring to.

“Charlie’s new name.” Danse made sure to keep his voice down. Both of them had learnt from the boy’s talent for eavesdropping. “I thought you did a great job.”

“Yeah, well.” Quinn sat on the desk and bowed her head. “Needs must.”

Danse edged forward. “Talk to me.”

“I just…” She sniffed and blinked, trying to keep herself composed. “Everything from that old life is slowly fading away. Nate...Shaun…” She paused. “At least I can finally call him something without the confusion. Sh—I mean—Charlie is his own person and that’s definitely what’s best for him.”

“It’s what’s best for you, too, I think. Even if it doesn’t feel like that right now.”

Quinn nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Yeah. Really doesn’t feel that way at all.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I gave Nate’s holotape to Shaun before I destroyed the Institute. I didn’t want him to be alone in the end.”

Danse made a sympathetic noise and strode over, pulling her into his arms. Quinn buried her head into his head, breathing in the smell of him, feeling his warmth as she slipped her hands under his jacket. His heart was beating fast.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

She glanced up at him and saw those deep, thoughtful brown eyes staring back at her. It occurred to Quinn she hadn’t kissed him since before she’d left to fight the Institute. She brought her hands up to his neck, but as she did, caught something hard and rectangular in his jacket pocket.

“What…?” Quinn hesitated, not wanting to snoop.

Danse sighed, reaching into the pocket and producing a holotape. Its plastic exterior was badly cracked. Quinn recognised it immediately as the message she had left behind for him to find. A moment of empty desperation. Not knowing if she would survive, not wanting to say final goodbyes in case they came true. At the time, the holotape seemed like the next best thing. Now it just looked like madness.

“I’m so, _so_ sorry,” she whispered, taking the holotape from his hands and gripping at it until her knuckles turned white.

“I understand.” Gently, Danse eased it from her grasp and held it aloft. “I made one of my own before, remember?”

Quinn had no desire to remember. Even imagining his voice in that tape broke her heart. She shook her head, close to tears. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Good. Because neither do I.” Danse took hold of the holotape with both hands. He grunted as he snapped it clean in two, his eyes never leaving hers, and then dropped the pieces carelessly on the floor. “No more tapes. No more echoes. We’re both here, and I don’t intend to be anywhere else but with you.”

Quinn gave a watery smile. “When were you such a romantic?”

“Not romantic. Just truth.” He hesitated, an uncomfortable expression settling on his face. “Also...I have something of yours. I meant to give you it earlier, but with everything that’s been happening…”

Danse put his hand back in his pocket and produced the final remnants of her old life. Nate’s ring swung lazily off the filthy string she’d looped through it. Her own ring rested in Danse’s palm, small and dull. Odd at how little she’d missed them, but now they were here, she felt like she was being reunited with old friends.

Quinn picked her own ring up with trembling hands, as if it was made with the finest jewels and rarest metals. She slipped it back onto her finger and clutched her fist to her chest. Quinn would never let them go again. It didn't matter who she was with or what happened—the rings were a part of her, for better or for worse.

After a few seconds, Quinn turned her attention to Nate’s band, holding it up by its string. She needed to put it back on, but…

Her cheeks started to burn.

“What?” Danse said, looking confused at her blush.

Quinn didn’t reply, but rested the ring on her lap as she pulled free the hidden chain around her neck. It was Danse’s turn to draw a sharp intake of breath as he saw his own holotags come free.

“You kept them?” he said softly when she passed them over. They looked so small in his big hands.

“Of course I did,” Quinn replied. “I should have given them back but they were comforting when things got...difficult.”

Danse said nothing for a moment, and then held them out to her again. Quinn stared at the tags, unsure what to do. The urge to take them was great, but they weren’t _hers,_ and she had held onto them for far too long.

“Please,” Danse said, answering her unspoken question. “I’d rather you have them.”

Quinn lifted the tags carefully from him, running her fingers over the metal chain. She indicated to the ring on her lap. “Can I…?”

Danse nodded.

Smiling, Quinn undid the knot on the dirty piece of string, removing Nate’s band. Then she opened the clasp that held the chain together, and slipped the ring on. It slid down the chain and fell next to Danse’s holotag with a gentle _‘clink.’_

He took the chain from her, clipping it back together and looping it over her neck, so that both pendants rested at her breastbone.

And damn it, she was crying again.

Danse went to hold her, but Quinn tilted her head up so that their lips met. The kiss was a surprise to both of them, yet somehow through all the mess Quinn found he was as needy for affection as she.

Soft, slow kisses that spoke of aching longing and lonely nights. Harder kisses, a bump of mouths and noses, crushing grip, desperation—no care for the stolen breaths between them. Danse picked her up in one easy movement, carrying her to the bed.

Hands were tugging at clothes, pulling free jackets and coats, struggling with belt buckles and zips, fingers impatiently exploring under stubborn fabric and tasting bare skin.

A loud snort from the other room made them stop in their tracks. Charlie mumbled in his sleep and turned over, and Quinn remembered how the walls were literally crumbling away. She sat up, panting slightly as she reluctantly pulled her clothes back into place, and saw Danse looked as startled as she did. Everything had happened so _fast._

Quinn gave a guilty grin, and after a second Danse returned it. The moment had gone, but Quinn didn't mind. Apparently neither did Danse. He lay back on the bed and beckoned her to join him, kissing her when she complied.

“Feeling better about that sort of thing?” she asked as she settled down next to him.

Danse nodded, still breathless. She couldn’t tell if the flush in his cheeks was from her question or their recent teasing. He smiled shyly. “That wasn’t planned, but...apparently so. Things seem to be working themselves out.”

“We'll have to have a date night,” she mumbled, pressing her lips to his neck.

“A what?”

Quinn smirked, knowing without looking that he’d be wearing his adorable perplexed frown. “A date night. You get a babysitter for the kids and go out for a romantic night together. Though I suppose we'll be hard pressed to find a reliable babysitter in the wasteland. Or a romantic venue, for that matter.”

“What on _earth_ is a babysitter?”

Quinn giggled.

* * *

The night that followed was a haze of sleep and kisses, tangled in each other’s arms. Danse woke her with nightmares once, though admittedly it was a bad episode. Quinn stroked his hair while his shakes wore off, before passing him a bottle of water. He gulped it down gratefully and then dragged her into a bear hug, as if he never wanted to let go. She wondered how he had been coping with his ghosts in her absence.

Come morning, Charlie wanted to join too, climbing into Quinn’s side of the bed and snuggling up to her. He wriggled around constantly, his bony knees and elbows digging into her back until she eventually gave in and got up. She put all her armour on with Danse’s help, noting the mischievous look in his eye at his lingering touches, and then made sure Charlie ate before they left the hotel. Quinn only managed to call him ‘Shaun’ by accident twice, which was better than expected.

As they walked towards the gates, Charlie continued his usual trend of asking a mountain of questions. From ghouls to chems and ‘Why are those ladies not wearing many clothes? Aren’t they cold?’, Quinn answered as best she could with varying degrees of internal groaning. She was glad he was such a curious child, but she wished he’d keep his voice down when asking the more awkward ones.

As she was answering his latest question—“Why does that ghoul have hair?”—she caught sight of three familiar faces, and stopped dead in her tracks. Hancock was waiting by the exit to Goodneighbor, twirling his blade between his fingers. Standing next to him were MacCready and Nick Valentine.

Oddly enough, it was MacCready who looked as if he didn’t want to be there. Nick gave a respectful nod in Danse’s direction and then turned to Quinn.

“Hancock mentioned you were escorting the kid back home.” Nick’s voice was cool—a lot cooler than Hancock’s had been when she’d first come into town—but at least he was talking to her. “Figured I’d help out.”

Quinn’s mouth was so dry she had difficulty speaking, but she managed a whispered, “Thank you.”

“I’m not gonna pretend I’m here for anything other than a debt,” MacCready said bluntly, folding his arms and glaring at her. His scowl slid down towards Charlie, but when the boy shied away from him, MacCready’s expression cracked with shame. He blinked, looking bewildered, and then forced his attention back to Quinn. “Hancock reminded me that I owe you Duncan’s life.”

“Don’t make yourself come along if you don’t want to,” Quinn retorted, her patience wearing thin. “I don’t have time for prejudices.”

“Ah, Mac, stop pretending you don’t have a heart,” Hancock said, spinning his knife one last time before putting it away and then glancing at Quinn. “He wasn’t that hard to convince. I think he just wants _everyone_ knows he’s pissed off.” The ghoul clapped his hand on MacCready’s shoulder, and Quinn saw MacCready wince uncomfortably as Hancock dug his fingers in. “A good old road trip is just what sulking children need.” He shot Danse a smirk. “Worked for me and the tin can.”

To Quinn’s amazement, Danse laughed. “Another one couldn’t hurt.”

She glanced between the two of them and their smirks widened. _They were enjoying her confusion._

“Shaun,” she said loudly, trying to change the subject, before realising her mistake. “I mean, _Charlie._ This is MacCready. He likes comic books almost as much as you do. I want you to quiz him on the way back to Sanctuary. See who knows the most.”

Quinn didn’t know why she’d just thrown MacCready in the path of her overly inquisitive son. He’d shown nothing but disdain towards Charlie, and yet MacCready looked bothered when he realised his glares had upset the boy. She was angry, yes, but she also felt like MacCready deserved a chance—even if he didn’t want it.

Besides, if it didn’t work, at least Charlie would stop asking _her_ questions for five minutes.

MacCready frowned, clearly not happy at her obvious attempt to force some kind of bonding between them, but then blinked in surprise as Charlie darted around Danse.

“You like _comics?”_ Charlie gasped, his face lit up with absolute delight, apparently unfazed by MacCready’s earlier scowls.

“Uh,” replied MacCready, unfolding his arms and straightening up a little. “Yeah, I guess so…?”

“Liar,” muttered Hancock. “I’ve seen that battered copy of Grognak you keep rolled up in your boot.”

It was as if Charlie had died and gone to heaven. “I’ve never read a Grognak comic before! Mom could only find me the Silver Shroud and some issues of the Unstoppables! Grognak is _so cool._ Can I see? Which issue is it? How long have you had it? Is it first edition? Is the Silver Shroud in it? Is it—?”

MacCready glanced up at her with an expression that said _‘Help.’_ Quinn smiled and ignored him, walking over to the gate and wrenching it open. As she looked over her shoulder to make sure the others were following, she saw a bemused MacCready hopping on one foot, pulling his battered Grognak comic out from his boot. He handed it to Charlie, who held it like a newborn child.

“Can I read it?”

“Sure.”

Charlie stayed latched to MacCready’s side all the way through the ruins of Boston. Quinn and Danse took the rear, Danse keeping an eye out for trouble while she monitored her son. Nick and Hancock went up front.

At first MacCready was unsettled, keeping an awkward distance from Charlie and replying with one word answers. However, when Charlie finished the comic that MacCready had lent him and starting asking specific questions about the issue tying in with one of the _‘Unstoppables’_ comics, MacCready came into his own. His enthusiasm matched Charlie’s to such an extent, Quinn had to frequently remind them to keep their voices down.

Thankfully, the Brotherhood patrols visiting Diamond City had been keeping up with their area sweeps, and the journey through the hot zones was once again uneventful. They reached Sanctuary without incident, and Charlie immediately took MacCready by the sleeve as he shouldered his sniper rifle, dragging him off towards Quinn’s house. Within minutes they were both sitting outside the front door, crossed legged and comparing comics.

Danse rolled his eyes, but Quinn was elated. She watched from afar for a few minutes, and then relented as MacCready caught her eye and pulled his hat down low to hide his red face. She laughed to herself and started checking over the settlement, making sure things were working as they should. The crops appeared to be growing well, the scavenging runs while she had been away bringing back a moderate amount of stimpaks and radaway, and the water pumps hadn’t broken all week.

Sturges updated her on all of this with great energy, waving his hammer around as he did. If the sunburn on his arms and nose were anything to go by, he’d been working around the clock to bring Sanctuary up to her specifications.

“Not seen Preston in a while, though,” Sturges said, suddenly crestfallen. “I’m thinkin’ he’s holed up at the Castle, doing whatever Minutemen stuff it is he does.”

Quinn couldn’t help but notice the note of longing which hadn’t been present while he was talking about razorgrain yield and wall repairs. She raised an eyebrow as she leaned forward and said in a low voice, “So, keen to see Preston, huh?”

Sturges looked surprised. Had he been like Danse, he would have quickly gone a vibrant shade of scarlet. But Sturges was not like Danse.

“Y’got me, General.” He gave her a confident smile. “Keep it between us for now, though, will ya? I got plans.”

“My lips are sealed.” Quinn clapped him on the shoulder. “Talk to you later, Sturges.”

“General.”

She turned to walk away and almost ran smack bang into Nick Valentine. He held his cigarette out of the way so as not to catch her clothes.

“Don’t mind me, General.” He smiled slightly.

Quinn tried to smile back, knowing full well he was teasing her, but their last proper conversation was blocking her thoughts. Nick seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he sighed heavily and gestured with his other hand.

“Come on. We’re long overdue for another talk.”

Quinn glanced over her shoulder to make sure Charlie was still occupied with MacCready, before shooting a reassuring nod to Danse, who was watching both of them closely. Only then did she follow Nick down the street. They walked in silence—not the pleasant silence that she and Hancock had shared when he’d escorted her through Goodneighbor—a deep, uncomfortable silence. Neither of them wanted to speak first.

Quinn decided to take the plunge. “Hancock mentioned that you’re staying in his town for the time being while the Brotherhood are in Diamond City. Is that true?”

“Sure is,” replied Nick, who looked grateful for a break in the awkward quiet.

“Why? You didn’t give a damn last time.”

Nick finished his cigarette, blowing out a stream of smoke before crushing the butt underfoot. He regarded her for a moment with a sharpness that felt as if he was trying to weed out feigned ignorance on her part.

Finally, he relaxed. “The Brotherhood’s ‘supply runs’ have been getting longer and more frequent lately. I got a heads up from Ellie not to bother returning to the city after I spoke to you. She knows people who can find their way to me in a pinch. There are some folk in Diamond City still loyal to me, and I don’t want to cause trouble between them and the Brotherhood for the sake of an old, rusted robot.”

“Nick, you’re not just some ‘old, rusted robot,’” Quinn chided. “You’re a valuable member of the community.”

Nick stared at her. A warm, genuine smile spread across his face. “And that’s precisely why I decided to give you another chance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been...keeping an eye on things. How you treat Shaun—”

“Charlie,” Quinn corrected at once.

“What?”

“Shaun...we told him what he is. And he decided he wanted to have a new name for himself. So he picked Charlie.”

“And you’re happy with that?”

“I’ll get over it,” Quinn said with a shrug. “It’s difficult, but it’s what he wants.”

Nick seemed pleased with this answer. “Well, as I was saying, I’ve been keeping tabs on how you treat _Charlie._ How you treat Danse.” He patted his pockets. “To see whether you’d changed, or whether you’re still the woman who helped me get justice for Jenny.”

“You haven’t been here. How the hell have you managed that?”

“Sturges,” Nick said simply. “I’ve known him a lot longer than you have. He said you’ve been bickering with Danse, but treating Sha— _Charlie_ —well. And Amari told me why you came to visit her, of course. Though she seemed to think you had nothing to do with the end of the Railroad. I didn’t bother to correct her.”

“Thanks,” Quinn mumbled, not meeting his eye.

“Don’t mention it.” Nick found his pack of cigarettes, drew one, and lit it. “Oh, and she also mentioned you weren’t keen on using Charlie as a test subjects for all the other synths—”

“If you thought I’d just agree to that without—” Quinn snapped at once.

“Woah, no,” he interrupted, holding up his hand to calm her. “The opposite, in fact. I’m glad to see you didn’t let me down. Treating the kid like he’s a person and not just a scientific curiosity...or a machine.”

“Well, he isn’t.” Quinn shook her head. “Where are you going with this, Nick? You already know how I treat synths.”

“After the Railroad, I didn’t know what to think,” Nick replied bluntly, frowning at her. “I never thought you’d go that far, even with the reasons you gave. I wasn’t sure if the Brotherhood had gotten to you. I mean, I knew you still cared for Danse, but aside from that…” He hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully, and then sighed deeply. “Look, what I’m saying is...I find what you did to be despicable. But you don’t hold any ill will towards synths, or even the Railroad. You could have made an example of Amari, but you didn’t. And you still treat my kind with the respect and dignity you’d give to any other person. That means a lot.”

“I’m done with the Brotherhood,” Quinn said fiercely. “I told you the last time you were here.”

He gave her a pointed look. “I think I can be forgiven for not believing that.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Quinn admitted sheepishly.

“But back to what I was saying.” Nick dragged on his cigarette. “I hate what happened, but I can move past it. I have to remember what you’ve done for me, and what you continue to do for people like me.” He nodded in the direction of Charlie. “I want to repair our friendship. I think it’s worth the effort.”

Quinn thought she might cry with relief, and in that moment didn’t care if she overstepped her boundaries. She flung her arms around him and yanked him into a crushing hug.

Nick paused for only a moment, before patting her gently on the back. “Missed you, too, kid.”

* * *

Danse rooted through the safe at the back of the living room, occasionally shooting glances towards the door. Charlie and MacCready were still sitting out front, blocking the way. Quinn was with the detective for the time being, but he suspected he might not have long if the conversation went badly.

He frantically pulled tapes out, hoping that there might be one—just _one_ —that would have what he needed. What had Quinn called it?

Finally, after reading every label and creating a pile of ‘maybe’ tapes, Danse found his prize. He scanned over the case three times, just to make sure, but it _had_ to be Quinn’s. He recognised her writing on the holotape. Danse stashed it away inside his jacket pocket, praying she wouldn’t find it, and carefully put the others back inside the safe.

He got to his feet, stretching out his back, and made his way to the door. Now all he had to do was—”

“What are you up to?”

Danse jumped so hard he nearly knocked an old coffee cup off the counter next to him. He turned to see Quinn standing at the _other_ damn door to the house, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Nothing, nothing,” Danse he said hurriedly. “Just...stuff.”

_Brilliant._

“Stuff,” she repeated, the corners of her mouth twitching. When he nodded furiously, she burst out laughing. The conversation with Nick must have gone well for her to be in such a good mood. “Alright, alright, I won’t ask.” Quinn’s expression suddenly changed from cheerful to mischievous, her gaze flicking towards the front door.

Danse turned to see Charlie and MacCready still pouring over their comic books. When he looked back again, she had stepped temptingly close, her body inches from his. Instantly, his mind went blank as he stared into those bright blue eyes, her breath tickling his lips.

“Last night, when things got heated,” she murmured, lifting her hand to trace a finger on his chest, “how did you feel? Were you...okay?” Quinn paused, pulling herself back a bit from him. “I don’t want to rush anything if you’re not ready.”

“I liked where things were going,” Danse said in a low voice, painfully aware that Charlie was just outside the house, “and if circumstances have been different, I would have continued—” He pulled her towards him, letting his palms slide slowly down her back as he leaned to her ear. “—with great enthusiasm.”

Quinn shivered at this, pushing closer against him, and Danse felt a thrill race through his body as their lips met. It took all his self control to keep his hands from wandering, and when they broke apart, he saw the look of triumph in her face.

She was _teasing_ him.

“Like I said, we need a date night,” she whispered, grinning wickedly.

“I’m...working on it.” Danse was finding it hard to think straight again.

“Oh?” She seemed genuinely surprised by this, and slipped her arms around his neck as she kissed him again. “I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning!
> 
> I have been told on good authority that if there is a mood to ruin, kids rise to the challenge magnificently.
> 
> MacCready always struck me as a synth hater in the games. He is totally game to execute Danse when Maxson first brings it up, and he is noticeably cool in his conversations with Nick. I have my own theories as to why he’s like this (along with Cait), but more on that next week. ;)
> 
> My work schedule has been massively messed up due to changing shifts. I should still be posting chapters until the 25th of March, when I go to visit the other half. After that I have work course for three weeks, so...we’ll see how it goes. I’ll let you know closer to the time.


	64. Berkeley Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise this is so late. I’ve been having a rough time personally, and then the attack on London happened yesterday and I really just did not feel in the mood for messing around with fanfic tbh.
> 
> Hope everyone is safe, and that this at least lifts someone’s mood.

“Nuka-Cola?”

Hancock peered suspiciously at Quinn over his cigarette, his eyes slightly unfocused. “Are you high?”

Quinn gestured to the empty jet inhalers at Hancock’s feet and snorted. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Since when have you picked Nuka-Cola over alcohol?” he retorted.

“Maybe I don’t have any.”

“You _always_ have booze.”

“Maybe I don’t have any,” she repeated, settling down in the chair next to him. The sun was just reaching its peak in the midday sky—the perfect time to relax in the shade of the porch with a drink and a friend. Quinn held out the Nuka-Cola to him, and after a roll of his eyes, Hancock took it.

“Tin can’s made you all boring,” he muttered, opening the bottle with his teeth, while Quinn opened hers on the edge of her chair seat.

“Or stopped me from being an alcoholic.”

“Like I said—boring.” Hancock sipped his drink.

Quinn frowned and lowered her bottle, staring at him. “Do you really consider that to be ‘not boring?’”

Hancock gave a little shrug. “Everyone has their vices. People who don’t clearly haven’t got enough fun in their lives.”

“I’d think I’d rather do without them,” Quinn replied, thinking about her last drunken escapade with a shiver. “They’ve caused me nothing but trouble.” Her eyes returned to the jet canisters on the floor. How much had he gone through this time? “Honestly, Hancock, I’m starting to worry about your ‘vices’ a little. The amount you take is more than recreational chem use.”

Hancock suddenly looked evasive. “Maybe I just know how to have a good time. Besides, ghouls need twice as much for the chems to have any effect.”

“But—”

“You obviously didn’t come here to lecture me. What’s up?”

Quinn took his meaning. _Drop it._ She sighed but respected his wishes. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me get my friends back. I don’t know what you said to make them come along, but it worked wonders. I never thought I’d be able to speak to Nick again, and MacCready was clearly _pissed_ over Charlie...and yet here they both are.”

Hancock brightened up at this, and leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Ah, no worries. Old Valentine didn’t take much persuading, to be honest. I think once he’d had time to cool off, he was always gonna come around. As for MacCready…” Hancock’s grin turned menacing. “I have my ways.”

Quinn narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like the idea of Hancock threatening MacCready, for more than one reason. “You bullied him into being nice to my son?”

Hancock paused, still wearing his dangerous grin, and then burst out laughing. “Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya. I reminded him about Duncan. I figured since you got rid of the Institute for us, the least I could do is smooth things over with the gang.”

Quinn could have hugged him. Instead, a smile spread over her face, and she knew he understood. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The two of them sat in silence, drinking their cola. Hancock shielded his eyes from the sun, muttering under his breath about it, until he eventually glanced over at Quinn.

“Where’s lover boy?”

Quinn paused, just as she was about to drain the rest of her drink. “You know, I’ve no idea.”

“Not keeping tabs on him, huh?” Hancock cackled, throwing back his head and catching the last of his cola on his tongue.

Quinn smiled to herself. No, she wasn’t. She trusted him to stay safe. And if that didn’t speak volumes about their progress together, she didn’t know what would.

Eventually it was time to get back to work. Quinn assisted with the razorgrain crops while Hancock staggered off to help with guard duty. Part of her wondered if he was fit to guard anything in his state, but she remembered he’d been running and defending Goodneighbor for years, high as a kite. She had to give him some credit.

However, as she was carrying a bushel of razorgrain across the settlement for Mama Murphy to work her magic on—though Quinn had to have a lengthy talk with her first as to _why_ mentats did not enhance the flavour of her bread—Sturges popped his head out from his house.

“General,” he said, looking shifty. “A moment of your time, if you please?”

Quinn nodded to him and then offloaded the razorgrain into Rose Crowcroft’s arms, a Minuteman who had chosen to stay behind and help with the settlement. “Take them to Mama Murphy for me, please? And please remind her: _no mentats.”_

Rose gave a wonky salute as she tried not to drop all the razorgrain. “General.”

Sturges waited for Quinn until she was at his door, and then disappeared inside. She hesitated, wondering what the hell was going on, and followed him into the house.

Quinn blinked.

Laid out in the centre of the room was a small, circular table. Its surface had been sanded and polished to a high shine, unlike anything that was left in the wasteland. Two chairs of a similar quality were seated around the table, and in the centre, a candle stub in a misted glass. By the looks of things, Sturges had repaired the furniture himself.

“For Preston,” Sturges said quickly, as if worried she would take the set-up the wrong way. “He sent ahead a message to say he’d be back tonight. Thought I’d fix up some dinner for us.”

“A date?”

“Well,” Sturges said, and for the first time she saw the traces of embarrassment in his face. “Things were progressing a little while he was in Sanctuary, but then he had to go oversee some new recruits at the Castle.”

Quinn felt a twinge of guilt at this. She had promised to take on the role of ‘General’ when she’d first met Preston, but somehow ended up with the Brotherhood instead. Maybe it was time for that to change.

“Thing is, you’re friends with him too. So you have a decent idea what he likes. Thoughts?”

Quinn laughed. It was all very _cute._ “Yeah, I think he’ll like it. You’ve clearly put some effort into this, and that’s what Preston’s all about, right? Hard, honest work.”

Sturges grinned. “Why thank you, ma’am.”

The smile slipped from his face, though, as a familiar voice called from outside.

“Sturges?”

“Dang.” Sturges eyes widened in horror. _“Preston.”_

“I’ll distract him,” Quinn said quickly, running to the door. “Get cooking!”

She heard some form of garbled gratitude behind her, but paid it no mind as she shot out of the house and ran smack into Preston. The two of them went flying backwards, landing in a heap on the ground. Quinn groaned and looked up to see Preston’s hat rolling away down the street, before remembering to get off her friend.

“General,” Preston said, accepting her hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

He dusted himself off as they walked over to his wayward hat, which hadn’t rolled too far. He picked it up, put it back on, and then dragged her into a bone-breaking hug.

“I can hardly believe it,” he said into her ear, squeezing her tight. “The Institute is gone. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Quinn laughed, and they broke apart. “I’m hearing that a lot.”

He grinned. “Maybe now the Commonwealth can finally come together and build something good for the future.”

“I had an idea about that, actually.” Quinn folded her arms, mulling over her racing thoughts. Plans had been brewing in her head all morning, but they’d still not formed into something solid. “Can’t put it into words right now, but give me some time and I’ll try and lay it out for you. Either way, I’m going to be taking a more active role in the Minutemen from now on, if you’ll still have me.”

Preston blinked and then grinned with delight at her. “Of course, General! I mean, I’d always hoped, but I thought you’d gone to the Brotherhood, and…”

“I’m done with them,” she replied firmly.

“Then I’d be honoured to defer to your leadership, ma’am.” He saluted. “Though it’s not gonna be all sunshine and rainbows from here on out. The Institute’s gone, but there are plenty of problems left to deal with.”

“Don’t I know it.” Quinn stretched her arms, and then quickly spoke as she heard Sturges clattering around in the house behind her. “I think for me, the attitude towards synths and ghouls has to change. Ignorance is the reason they’re stigmatised—especially synths. With the Institute out of the way, I think we could make real progress in breaking down the barriers.”

“I know you have a personal stake in that,” Preston said, “but maybe securing people’s settlements first would be a solid foundation to build on.”

“Oh yeah, that too. But if ghouls and synths _help_ secure those settlements, that would go a long way to changing people’s attitudes, as well as giving them places to live where they’re accepted by the residents.”

Preston raised an eyebrow. “Would this have anything to do with the master plan you’re concocting?”

“Maybe.” Quinn grinned. She changed the subject. No point delving into the concept when it wasn’t ready. “Why are you back so soon? Sturges said you weren’t due until tonight.”

“Well, I decided to escort a local doctor to his next port of call after he helped me out at the Castle,” Preston replied. “Fixed up one of the new recruits.” He paused, looking around. “Now you mention him, though, where’s Sturges? Why were you in his house?”

As he looked past Quinn to frown at Sturges’ house, she heard a quiet, high pitched noise of dismay behind her. Trying to bite back a laugh, Quinn waved her hand in front of Preston’s face, pulling his attention back to her.

“A doctor?” she asked innocently. “Did he follow you here, or did you part ways?”

“Oh, he followed me here!” Preston replied. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to him. His name is Doc Weathers.”

Quinn frowned. That name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t remember why. It made her uncomfortable. Putting her uneasiness aside, she nodded. “Lead on.”

* * *

Danse sat back down in front of the computer and held his breath. Repairing terminals were not his forte, but with the manual he’d dug up at one of the stores in Goodneighbor, he’d been able to give it his best shot. He hit the ‘on’ button and waited.

The screen flickered to life, filling the room with a pleasant green glow, and Danse grinned. He pulled the holotape he’d acquired from the safe yesterday out of his pocket and inserted it into the tape port. It crackled to life after a few seconds, and Danse listened carefully.

_Sounds right,_ he thought, remembering the tune Quinn had sang to him almost a year ago. The words were familiar, at least.

Danse stood up and held out his arms. He waited for a good beat, and then shuffled around on the spot, feeling stupider by the second. What he needed was a teacher, but he’d be damned if he was going to let anyone see him in such a ridiculous state. That was why he’d retreated to the privacy of the Red Rocket truck stop without telling a soul where he was going. Just _imagine_ if—

“Knock knock, tin can.”

Danse cursed as he spun around, hitting his leg on the terminal desk. He glanced up and saw both the ghoul and the detective standing at the inner doorway to the building. Valentine looked mildly amused. Hancock held the expression of a jet addict that had just found a large stash of chems.

In the background, the song ended and a new one came on. Apparently Quinn had made a mixtape, not just a recording of one song.

“What the hell are you up to?” Hancock said, squeezing past Valentine, unable to keep the giggle out of his voice.

“Nothing,” Danse replied with a scowl, sitting himself down on the desk and folding his arms.

Valentine dragged on his cigarette as he stepped into the room, glancing around with a small smile on his face. Unlike Hancock’s barely contained delight, the detective’s expression was kinder.

“Trying to impress a dame?” he asked casually, while Hancock started to snicker.

Danse scowled harder, staring at the floor as his face burned. When the two of them didn’t take the hint, he sighed and closed his eyes. “After everything that’s happened, Quinn needs a break. One night to herself.” He told them about the song and his plans.

“Quinn mentioned that she hadn’t seen you much today.” Hancock’s smirk widened as Danse’s eyes snapped open again with panic. “Oh, don’t worry about it. She’s not concerned and she doesn’t suspect anything. But I asked old Nick here if he’d seen you, and he led the way. I don’t think either of us expected find _this,_ though.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Nick added, his tone lacking the teasing quality of Hancock’s. “But I think it’s a good idea. Need any help?”

“No.” Danse returned to staring at the floor.

“Tin can,” Hancock chipped in slyly, “your dancing leaves a _lot_ to be desired. Sure you don’t need any help? Nick’s a classy guy, and I know my way around the ladies....”

_Oh my God._

“I’m not trying to achieve _that,”_ Danse groaned, covering his face with his hand. Yes, he and Quinn had been _suggestive_ with each other recently, but he just wanted to do something nice for her. How things went after that was anyone’s guess.

“Ignore him,” Nick said, and as Danse glanced up he caught the detective rolling his eyes at Hancock. “The good mayor here is about as sophisticated as a softshell mirelurk.”

“Hey—!”

“But I do know how to dance,” Nick went on, ignoring Hancock’s protests. “Or at least I can teach from afar. You’re gonna need a dance partner, bud.”

Danse opened his mouth to say no again, when he stopped. What did he honestly know about dancing? While the last thing he wanted was outside interference, this was for Quinn, not for him. And it was about time he swallowed his damn pride.

“...Fine.” Danse folded his arms, deep in thought. “Who’s going to be my dance partner, though?” Piper was away in Diamond City, Mama Murphy was...not an option, and Rose Crowcroft looked about as elegant as him.

Hancock stepped forward, grinning.

Both Nick and Danse turned to look at him, then at each other, before diverting their attention back to Hancock.

“No,” said Danse loudly.

“Yes,” said Nick with an approving nod.

_“No.”_

“I ain’t seeing an alternative, tin can,” Hancock said, barely able to contain his glee. He swept off his hat and gave an elaborate bow. “Milady.”

“Never say that to me again.”

“Besides, you’ll be the girl,” Nick added, starting to grin himself.

“I can work with that.” Hancock jammed his hat back on and curtsied. “Shall we dance, tin can?”

Danse put his head in his hands. “Give me strength.” He snapped his gaze up towards Hancock and glared. “The last thing I want to think of while trying to have a private evening with Quinn is _you.”_

Hancock blinked, before his expression turned ugly. “I honestly thought you were past the whole ghoul thing, _asshole.”_

“No, it’s just…” Danse looked to Nick for help, who held up his hands and took a step away from the argument. Danse met Hancock’s eye, feeling more embarrassed with every passing second. “If you were trying to—uh— _woo_ a lady—or whatever the hell you call it—the last thing you’d want is to accidentally think of me because we ran a dress rehearsal before the event.”

Danse realised the words sounded much stupider out loud than in his head.

“Well, there are worse looking faces I could think of, but I see your point.” Hancock spluttered with laughter as Danse’s mouth fell open. “I’m kidding!”

Nick lit a cigarette. “Are you two done? Time’s a-wasting and I don’t think we’re gonna find many willing volunteers for this on such short notice.”

Danse glanced from the still snickering Hancock to the terminal and sighed deeply.

“Fine.” He got to his feet, revulsion crawling through him. “Let’s get this over with.”

There was one other thing that was bothering him, but he didn’t want to upset Hancock by voicing it. The very thought of touching a ghoul still made him feel physically sick. He imagined rotting flesh slipping off under his fingers, the stench of decay tainting his hands for weeks, or even months.

Cold. Slimy. _Dead._

He hesitated when Hancock held his hand out to Danse. There was an awkward pause, Danse unable to keep the look of disgust off his face as he looked at Hancock’s wrinkled, damaged skin. He glanced up to see Hancock staring at him expectantly, the ghoul’s mouth twisted with exasperated patience.

Danse drew in a shaky breath and took Hancock’s hand.

To his greatest surprise, Hancock’s skin was dry and leathery to the touch, like old brahmin hide. Perfectly normal. Almost the same as a human labourer’s hands.

“There,” Hancock said with a bright grin as Danse felt himself relax. “Not so bad, huh?”

“No,” Danse admitted, an apologetic smile flickering across his face.

“Course, now I’m going to make things uncomfortable.” Hancock winked and took hold of Danse’s other hand, dragging it to his waist as he stepped closer.

_“Hancock,”_ Nick said in a warning voice.

“Oh come on! He’s not gonna hold her at arm’s length!”

Danse didn’t listen as they began to bicker. He’d expected Hancock to reek the same way feral ghouls did, but there was no smell that was out of the ordinary for any other wastelander.

_I’ve been a bigot my entire life,_ Danse thought, the mortification intensifying as he remembered how he’d treated Hancock in the past. But before he could dwell on the subject, Hancock whipped around to face him.

“Right, tin can!” he said, drowning out whatever Nick was trying to say. “Listen to old Valentine and learn how to sweep me off my feet!” Hancock fluttered his eyes and then blinked as Danse started to snigger himself.

“This is surreal,” Danse said, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned to an equally surprised Nick. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Nick muttered.

The following lesson was chaos. Between Hancock getting the giggles and his frequent chem breaks, Danse kept messing things up by tripping over his own feet. He’d never been a particularly coordinated person, but this was pushing him to his limits. Not falling over required all of his concentration, to the point where Hancock burst out laughing every time he looked at Danse.

However, after several hours of toe-tapping torture, Danse memorised enough of the steps to get a basic grasp of things. Even Nick, who had taken off his hat and coat and loosened his tie as time wore on, looked pleased.

“I think you’ve got it, kid,” he said, smiling wearily.

“I’m feeling pretty damn swept off my feet,” Hancock said as he and Danse shuffled around the room. When the song ended, they broke apart, Hancock dropping onto the bed with a sigh while Danse sat on the nearby desk. He wasn’t as convinced as the other two, but it was an improvement, at least.

“So, who’s babysitting Charlie while you’re with Quinn?” Nick asked, opening up his pack of cigarettes and frowning when he saw it was empty.

“I’ll do it,” Hancock said, pulling a fresh pack of cigarettes out and tossing it to Nick.

“No, you won’t,” Danse said instantly, glaring. He was grateful for Hancock’s help, but the man was a _junkie._ “Not with the chems you take.” Danse turned to Nick. “Would you mind…?”

Nick dropped the cigarette he’d been about to light. “Me? I mean, yeah, but…” He smiled. “Thanks for trusting me, kid.”

* * *

Sanctuary was beginning to wind down for the evening as Quinn walked down the street. She made her way past Doc Weathers and frowned in his direction as he packed away his things and wandered off towards one of the spare bunks.

She didn’t trust the man. She couldn’t say why, but he set her on edge. From his sleazy attitude to his glittering eyes, there was just something not _right_ about him.

_Where have I heard his name before?_

If she could remember that, she’d probably have her answers about his character. At the very least she was certain he wasn’t affiliated with the Brotherhood.

Quinn decided to let it go for now and instead turned her attention to the sky with a frown. It was slowly losing its steel-blue hue to pastel washes of purple, pink, and gold as the sun departed from the skyline. Worry began to prick at her insides. Where the hell was Danse?

Not that she had concerns for his state of mind these days—if anything, he seemed to be doing better than she was. But if the Brotherhood travelled North West from Diamond City...if they stumbled across Danse…

She should have left Charlie in the care of Danse and gone back to see Maxson herself. Let him know she was fine and there was no need to look for her. Still, it hadn’t been too long. Danse had mentioned before that it had taken ages before anyone was allowed to track down Cutler. And what with the end of the war, likely no one of importance had noticed her absence.

In the distance, she saw a small, skinny figure walking over the bridge towards Sanctuary, carrying a bulky package. Quinn tensed, jogging to the barricades and ducking out of sight. A few seconds later, she stood up again when she realised it was MacCready. As he drew closer, he stopped dead, a blush creeping up his cheeks, clinging tightly to the package. Quinn made her way over to him, noting he wasn’t quite meeting her eye. She thought she’d won him over yesterday, after she’d had to practically drag him and Charlie apart so that Charlie could go to bed. Clearly that wasn’t the case.

“Everything okay?” she asked, already feeling defensive on her son’s behalf. If he gave her any more shit about synths…

MacCready did no such thing. Instead, he looked at her, sighed, and opened the top of the bundle in his arms. She was met with a bright jumble of comic books in varying conditions. Some seemed brand new, their colours glowing in the dull backdrop of the wasteland. Others were torn or heavily worn, their pages yellowed and drained with age. Quinn knew Charlie would love them all.

“I...thought Charlie might like some more stuff to read,” MacCready mumbled, dropping his gaze to the floor again. “I know I would’ve at his age.”

“Wanna grab a Nuka-Cola together?” Quinn said.

MacCready glanced up at her, surprised. When she waved for him to follow her, he did so, meekly. Completely unlike him, but she suspected he didn’t know what to make of her ready acceptance.

They sat on the sofa in her house, the large comic collection set carefully on the coffee table, still covered by the fabric MacCready had bundled it in. Charlie flitted around in the background, eagerly trying to catch MacCready’s attention until Quinn told Codsworth to take Charlie for a long walk with Dogmeat.

MacCready took his cola with a murmured thanks, picking at the label on the bottle instead of drinking it.

“What’s changed, Mac?” Quinn said, swigging from her own drink. “First you’re storming out of Hancock’s place after all but calling me a bad mother—”

MacCready visibly winced, but didn’t interrupt.

“—then you begrudgingly help me escort my son back here, but only after making a point of telling me you’re not doing it for any pleasant sort of reason. Now you’re bringing back comic books for Charlie.” She leaned forward, unsmiling. “What the fuck?”

MacCready didn’t answer at first, stripping away the peeling label completely and scrunching it up in his hand before he spoke. “I...don’t trust synths.”

Quinn snorted with mirthless laughter. “Yeah, that’s fucking obvious. Hancock said he had to remind you about Duncan before you would play nice. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you are with Valentine.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or forgotten what you said when you realised Danse was a synth.”

MacCready closed his eyes, going red again. He opened them as he said, “I know. I know how I come across. I know how I am with Valentine. And I know how I was with Danse. But I don’t think you realise how everyday people see synths.”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“No, you don’t.” He looked up at her, frowning. “You know how the Brotherhood treat them—cold, merciless disgust. Not fear, just disgust. And you know that for the most part, Diamond City accept Nick Valentine, although they’re suspicious of the rest.” MacCready’s expression softened. “People like me—we’re just plain scared of them.”

“Scared?” Quinn was confused. MacCready was no coward and could handle himself just fine in the wasteland.

“Yeah, scared.” He shrugged. “It’s not easy to admit it, but it’s true. When I think of synths, I think of people being kidnapped and murdered, and then being replaced by those... _things._ And then later the replacement killing the entire family and running off. It’s _happened_...or people say it’s happened. I always tried to be so careful. If I was taken, if I died, who would get the cure for Duncan? And then after the cure, I thought, ‘What if I’m replaced and they find my son?’ Maybe they’d kill him too.”

Quinn remembered the paranoia that was rife in Goodneighbor and Diamond City. People turning on their neighbours or even their own family because they thought someone had been replaced by a synth. People gunned down in the street...

MacCready continued. “Danse is different, because he ran away from them, didn’t he? He got free. But Valentine just looks so...inhuman. And Charlie?” He shook his head. “A replica of Shaun? It seemed too weird. I didn’t trust him. I thought maybe you’d taken him with you for the wrong reasons, or he was some sort of spy with a plan to hurt you for destroying out the Institute.”

“Charlie isn’t—”

“I _know_ he’s not. Now I do, anyway. If anything, he makes me think of Duncan.”

Quinn was surprised. “Oh?”

“He’s not out to carry on the Institute’s cra—um—plans. He just cares about comic books and the other stuff kids like. Wherever he came from...he’s a child.” MacCready squirmed, mortified. “He’s your son, and from what he’s told me, a victim of the Institute, too. So…” He pointed to the comic books with an apologetic expression. “I can’t promise I’m ever gonna trust _synths._ But I trust you.”

He reminded Quinn of Danse, and the way he had warmed to Sarah - the ghoul from The Slog - after spending some time with her. Quinn and MacCready looked at each other, before he made another vague gesture towards the comics. “I’ll leave these with you, anyway.”

“Nuh uh,” said Quinn, smirking. “You’re the nerd. You can give them to Charlie yourself. You’ll be his new favourite person.”

MacCready laughed just as Charlie walked back in with Dogmeat and Codsworth. Dogmeat bounded across the room, jumping all over MacCready. When Charlie realised what the bundle on the coffee table contained, he threw himself onto MacCready as well.

Quinn left them to it. Although she was glad that things with MacCready were sorted, night had now fallen and there was still no sign of Danse. She bit her lip as she walked down the street, her heart hammering in her chest.

Just as the panic began to set in, Quinn saw him heading back up towards the house. She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck as he turned to look at her.

“Hey,” he said, squeezing her as kissed her cheek.

“Where have you been all day?” Quinn asked when they broke apart. “I was starting to worry.”

“Your friends are going to look after Charlie for a bit,” Danse replied, blatantly avoiding the question. “I’ve something to show you first.”

Quinn noted the blush in his cheeks, and saw Hancock and Nick strolling past behind them. Nick tried to be inconspicuous, but Hancock grinned, winking as he gave her a thumbs up.

She glanced back to Danse and saw him rolling his eyes at Hancock, before smiling nervously. “Come on.”

Quinn followed him through Sanctuary, past the barricades, and over the bridge into the open wasteland. They walked in silence, keeping their senses sharp for any hidden dangers lurking in the darkness. Despite this, Quinn couldn’t help wonder what he was up to. She knew they had half joked about ‘date night,’ but Danse was an extremely private person. He wouldn’t have allowed Nick and Hancock to be involved just so he could spend the night with her.

Her confusion grew as they reached the Red Rocket truck stop. They went inside, but Danse stopped her at the inner door to the main workshop. He handed her his rifle, mumbling that he had to ‘do something’ first, and then disappeared out of sight, the door sliding shut behind him.

A minute passed, and when the door opened again, Quinn heard the most wonderful sound.

_“That certain night, the night we met,_

_There was magic abroad in the air,_

_There were angels dining at the Ritz,_

_And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”_

* * *

Danse felt sick as he led her inside. At Hancock’s recommendation, he’d dotted candles around the room, the rest of the light being provided by the green glow of the terminal. Then he’d tidied and cleaned up as best he could, leaving a suitable space in the centre of the room.

Quinn looked stunned. She set his rifle down on the nearby cabinet, staring at him.

“When we first left the Prydwen to build the teleporter in Sanctuary, you mentioned that you always wanted to dance to this song, but you never got the chance.” Danse shrugged, the nerves biting hard in his chest. This was the moment: either she would love it, or he was about to upset her. “I’m not Nate, and I’m not trying to replace him, but—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Quinn flung her arms around his neck and dragged him into a long kiss.

“Thank you,” she said, before kissing him again. “Thank you.”

“Good idea then?” Danse replied, feeling somewhat faint with relief.

Quinn nodded. “Restart it and we can dance to the whole thing.”

Danse obeyed, and the second the song returned to the beginning, Quinn grabbed him by the arm and whirled him around. She dragged him to the centre of the room and took both of his hands.

“Shall we?”

Danse nodded, his mouth dry as he ran Nick’s instructions over in his head. He could do this. _He could do this._

He frowned as they danced, trying to keep each step perfect, each move in sync with the music. After a few seconds, though, Quinn laughed and stopped. She reached up and touched his face.

“You’re overthinking it,” she said, placing a gentle kiss on his nose. “Dancing really stiff and awkward.”

_Oh God. I’m ruining this for her._

“S-sorry,” Danse stammered. “I’ll start it again. I’ll do better. I—”

Quinn silenced him with a kiss. “Stop overthinking it,” she repeated, grinning now. “I don’t want perfection. I want to enjoy this moment with you. How about a slow dance instead?”

“A slow dance?”

Quinn moved his arms so that they enveloped her, and she leaned her head against his chest. Then she began to sway and shuffle gently on the spot. Danse mimicked her, and suddenly they were dancing. He didn’t know how, since it was less structured and formal than what Nick had taught him, and yet it _worked._

Danse felt the tension leave him, and he just focused on the music and the woman in his arms. For the first time since he’d met her, she looked truly at peace with everything, almost melting in his embrace. The way Danse felt about her was indescribable. He’d planned to tell her exactly what she meant to him, but now that the moment was here, every word he could think of was woefully inadequate.

The next song came on, but neither of them stopped. Danse could happily do this all night.

“I don’t even remember telling you about _A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square,”_ Quinn mumbled. “But you listened to what I had to say, even back then. You cared. And you put all this effort in...just for me.”

“Honestly,” Danse said, “this wouldn’t have been possible without Hancock and Nick.”

Quinn looked up and stared at him, wearing a surprised expression and a small smile. Had he said the wrong thing? Was he supposed to take full credit for it? The nerves were beginning to take hold, and he licked his lips before speaking.

“What are you thinking?” he asked stupidly.

“I’m just thinking how much I love you,” Quinn replied.

Danse’s foot snagged on thin air. In an instant the world whirled around him as he went crashing to the floor, Quinn shrieking as he dragged her with him. He fought desperately to breathe while she lay splayed on top of him, the wind knocked from his body, and drew in deep, heaving breaths when it passed.

“Are you okay?” Quinn gasped, trying to help him up, her eyes wide with worry. “Did you land on anything? Did you—?”

“Y-you love me?” Danse stammered. He couldn’t have heard that right. She obviously hadn’t said that. But...he needed to check.

Quinn blinked. “Yes, of course I love you.” She went pink. “Um, I’m sorry. I—”

“I love you, too,” Danse blurted out.

This was not how he’d intended it to go. He’d imagined softly spoken words and a tender kiss of passion—not lying on the floor, wheezing, having been hit with blunt force trauma to the chest by his own girlfriend.

This was almost as bad as declaring his feelings to her inside a bomb factory.

Quinn started to laugh. For a split second, a rush of embarrassment drowned him, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and disappear. But then she crawled into his lap and pressed her lips to his.

“I _love you,”_ she said between each kiss. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he replied weakly.

She giggled, but the sound was swallowed as their mouths met. When they broke apart there was a pause, and then Danse sat up, letting her straddle him as he pulled her close. The kisses grew more frantic, their hands eagerly exploring each other. Things were quickly tumbling out of control again, but this time with no one to disturb them. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her collarbone...only when she began to nip at his neck, moving her hips so that she grinded against him, did his nerves finally leave him.

Danse fumbled with the catch on her bra, but the accursed contraption stayed firmly fastened, taunting him until the anxiety threatened to come back. Maybe Quinn sensed his frustration, or maybe she was as worked up as he was. Either way, she leaned away from him, taking the damn thing off without even bothering to remove her top.

“How…?” Danse began, but the question was forgotten as she returned to him, her fingers tugging impatiently at his belt. He didn’t need prompting. His own hands pulled Quinn’s shirt over her head. Danse threw the garment aside without a second thought, kissing every new inch of her he could reach, unsure where he wanted to start.

Quinn made the decision for him, finally wrestling the belt buckle free and slipping her hand into his pants.

Danse’s breath caught in his throat, and he leaned against her, momentarily thrown off guard as she moved her palm slowly up and down. Then she stopped, allowing the sweet haze to clear just enough so she could catch his eye. Quinn was smirking.

“Bed?”

Danse grinned. “Bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> Throwback to chapter 7. This is one of the scenes I’ve had in my head the longest, so I’m glad to finally use it. :)
> 
> As I have said at some point, though, I am very uncomfortable with writing smut. And I'm not very good at it. So there will not be anything explicit in this fic. Thankfully there are maaaany smut fics out there, so I'm sure you can scratch that itch quite easily. 0D
> 
> I'm so excited for the next few chapters. Now I'm past the end of the game, I have free rein.
> 
> FLUUUUUUFF.


	65. A Wolf at the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning! She's amazing. ^_^

Danse drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep, old nightmares pressing down on him in the dark. Despite this, he’d never felt so content. Quinn slept soundly in his arms, her naked body pressed against his. The night had been a good one, if awkward in places. She’d taken the lead, helping him through when his nerves spiked and he’d began to fumble. Danse didn’t care that things hadn’t gone smoothly, though. He’d enjoyed it, regardless. By the sound of it, so had she.

He grinned to himself, his cheeks feeling hot at the thought of their antics, and kissed the top of her head. She mumbled and squirmed, nuzzling into his chest, and then began to softly snore.

This gentle quiet slowly shifted as the night wore on. Danse watched as she went from calm and still to twitching, her brow furrowed as if in pain. Finally, when she began to struggle against the bed sheets, he gave her shoulder a little shake.

Quinn snapped awake with a horrible gasp, reaching out for something that wasn’t there. She pushed herself upright, shoving aside his attempts to soothe her, and stared blankly at the wall. “Shaun?”

Danse felt his stomach drop, but he didn’t say anything, watching her carefully.

“Shaun?” Quinn repeated, rubbing at her eyes. Gradually, he saw reality creep back into them. With a sniff, she drew her knees to her chest and buried her face. Danse leaned forward, still not speaking, and placed his hand on her bare back, noting her shivers. She’d talk when she was ready.

Eventually, Quinn turned to him. Even in this dim light, he could see her eyes were puffy, laced with troubles. She shook her head. “What kind of person am I?”

Danse frowned. Where was this coming from? “A good one.”

“I wiped out the Railroad. Abandoned the Brotherhood. Betrayed Shaun.”

“And you _saved_ the Commonwealth,” Danse said gently. It occurred to him that he still hadn’t discussed the enormity of this. Well, he was going to tell her now. “The constant paranoia of living in the Institute’s shadow disappeared the moment you pressed that detonation button.”

Quinn said nothing, staring past him with dead eyes. Danse decided to go on.

“The kidnappings, the fear and the threat of their technology running amok...all gone thanks to you. What you’ve done will be felt for years to come. It’s destined to become a part of...”

Danse trailed off as he saw her face crumple.

“I just miss my son,” Quinn whispered.

“I know.” He took hold of her hands and squeezed them. “I know.”

“I don’t understand,” she mumbled, avoiding his eye. “Sometimes I can almost forget what happened—that he was even my son to begin with. I can just focus on you and Charlie and I’m okay. But other days, I’m just...dead.” Quinn glanced up at him, fresh tears streaking her cheeks. “Is this how I’ve always been? A heartless bitch that can rationalise her son’s death? I don’t _feel_ human. I feel like I’m pretending. _Broken.”_

Danse wasn’t offended at her comment of ‘not feeling human.’ How could he decide what her mourning felt like? “That’s how I was over Cutler. But what you have to remember is this isn’t a sudden death. How long have you been in the Commonwealth now?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said, wiping at her eyes. “More than a year, I think.”

“Precisely. You’ve had time to come to terms with Shaun and everything he was. Everything you needed to do. You’re not broken—you’ve been going through the grieving process for the better part of a year, long before Shaun died.” He moved Quinn’s hair out of her eyes and caressed her cheek with his fingers. “This is just the final stage—the hardest stage. Letting go.”

Danse kissed her. “And despite knowing what you had to do, you made the difficult choice to carry on. The Commonwealth is safe because you chose to take a leap of faith and make a difference. I am...so proud of you.”

Quinn gave a half-hearted smile. “I wouldn’t have managed it without your help. I’d probably still be drunk in a bar somewhere.”

“And I’d definitely be dead without you.” He held her steady as she flinched. “I’d say that makes us even.”

Quinn said nothing for a while, tilting her head into his hand and watching him. After a few minutes, she said, “Why are you so good to me?”

Danse rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re asking that question.”

She gave a small shrug.

He lay back against the headrest, pulling her to his chest. “You’re a kind, patient person who’s been handed a rough deal. You deserve what goodness the world has left to offer. And I’m more than happy to provide it.”

Quinn propped herself up, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “Sounds more like you’re talking about yourself.”

Danse raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound anything like me.”

“Why not?”

“We already established I have very little patience for anything.”

“True.” Quinn smirked, the last traces of her grief fading. “But it’s those quirks that I love about you.”

Danse flinched. He knew they’d said it to each other earlier, but that had been in the heat of the moment. Now, in the quiet aftermath, when the mundane was settling back into place, he couldn’t imagine her saying it again. But she _had_ —sort of. “Sorry, what?”

She frowned at him, looking confused. “I said that’s what I love about you.”

“Oh. Sure.” He shifted in the bed, suddenly uncomfortable. “Do you mean...you like those things about me, or…?”

Quinn sat up, now thoroughly perplexed. “Danse, I literally said, ‘I love you’ yesterday. What possible other—”

Ah, damn it. He could feel his face burning up. “I wasn’t sure if you meant it.”

“Oh my God.” Quinn put her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. For a split second, he thought he’d upset her, until he realised she was giggling. She let her hands drop, grinning from ear to ear. “I meant it. I love you, you adorable idiot.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

_“But,”_ Danse said louder, sitting up straight. “I’m grumpy. I’m prejudiced. I’m stubborn. I’m impatient. I’m—”

“—none of those things,” Quinn countered, leaning forward and placing her hand over his mouth. “Well, except for the grumpiness...and the being stubborn, but that’s kind of cute. Everything else, though? You aren’t that man anymore, Danse, and you haven’t been for some time. You called Nick and Hancock by their names for the first time last night, and I bet you didn’t even notice.”

Danse blinked. She was right—he hadn’t noticed. That couldn’t have been the first time, though...could it? He tried to think of another occasion but came up blank. Quinn took advantage of his silence.

“You’re patient with the right people,” she said softly, finally removing her hand from his mouth. “You’re kind and considerate with the vulnerable, not just those who are useful to you. You’re intelligent and resourceful. And most of all, you’re willing to accept your mistakes and learn from them. You’re the best person I’ve met in this shitheap of a wasteland, and because of those qualities, I love you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Well, except for one thing.

“I love you, too.” The words felt different this time around. Cleaner. Calmer. And when Quinn leaned in to kiss him, he took her into his arms, basking in her presence. He loved her, and beyond all reasonable doubt, she loved him back.

After that, Danse slept well.

* * *

Quinn woke to the sound of rumbling snores right down her ear. She grumbled as she dug her elbow into Danse’s stomach, causing him to jerk awake with a loud snort.

“What?” he said, squinting at her.

“You're making a noise like a broken vertibird,” Quinn replied, rubbing her eyes.

Danse muttered something that sounded like, _“You're one to talk,”_ and rolled onto his side with a huff.

She watched him for a second, before reaching out and touching his back. He flinched beneath her fingers and she grinned. “You can't stay mad at me.”

“Yes I can.” He took hold of her hand without turning around and pulled her forward so he could kiss her knuckles.

“Liar.”

“I _never_ lie.”

Quinn giggled and snuggled up to him, kissing the nape of his neck. “I think I still have some mirelurk eggs somewhere. Want me to make breakfast?”

Danse turned to face her, caressing her cheek as he pressed his lips to hers. “Stay with me a little longer.”

Quinn was happy to oblige. They remained entwined, sharing kisses and gentle touches until the darkness of the room was finally interrupted by a long shaft of light. Dust swirled around the faint beam stretching from the window of the inner door to a small spot on the floor. Real life was waiting for her.

Quinn sighed and sat up. They were going to eat before they returned to the settlement, at least. She leaned over the side of the bed and picked up Danse's discarded shirt off the floor. She stood up, a quick bat of her hand loosening the dust clinging to the fabric, and pulled it over her head. As she made to walk across the room, though, Danse grabbed her arm. Quinn looked at him with a frown.

His gaze slowly slid up and down, lingering where the hem of the shirt just touched the top of her thighs. Danse bit his lip as he met her eyes, and then gently tugged her back towards him.

The shirt quickly found its way onto the floor again. Round two was slower, both of them taking the opportunity to fully touch and taste the other. Their chance to make up for lost time. It ended sooner than Quinn would have liked, but she was still content. There was plenty of time to practice, after all. Years. Hopefully decades. Maybe even a lifetime, if she was lucky.

They lay together in the aftermath, a sense of heavy relaxation almost smothering Quinn until she felt like she could drift off to sleep again.

“We have to return to Sanctuary soon, don't we?” Danse mumbled into her hair.

“Yeah.” She didn't bother to open her eyes, lost in the rise and fall of Danse’s chest. “Responsibilities and all that shit.”

He squeezed her tighter and she smiled to herself. It had been a wonderful night, sweeter for how rare moments like this were going to be.

“I suppose I should collect my things from the bunker before some raider finds them,” Danse said, his voice weary.

“You could…” Quinn hesitated. “You could move them into...my place. Or I could move my stuff into yours.”

Had she just said that? They’d barely been a couple for a few months and she was already suggesting they live together. She had a son. What man would want the responsibility of someone else’s child?

Danse nodded. “Yes, that seems sensible.”

Quinn sat up and stared at him. “You...you don't mind?”

“Mind what?” Danse frowned at her. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Her mouth was dry as she tried to find the right words. “Me asking you to move in. You don’t mind that?”

“Why would I? We were already staying together at the bunker.”

“Yes, but this is more...official.”

Danse’s frown deepened. He obviously still didn't understand. How could she even explain it, though? The more she thought about it, the more Quinn realised the worlds they had grown up in were continents apart. Things that were important and scary in her society were non-issues in his.

Quinn felt her cheeks burning as she twisted her hands together. “Moving in was a big deal before the war. It showed you were serious as a couple.”

“But we are serious as a couple.” He suddenly looked worried. “Aren't we?”

“Well, yes—”

“So why are you so anxious about it?”

Quinn covered her face, embarrassment worming its way through her. “I don't know. I don't want to fuck anything up by rushing you.”

Danse laughed, pulling her hands away and kissing her. “What did I tell you at the hotel?”

“That you're not going anywhere,” she mumbled, not meeting his eye.

“I’ve already promised Charlie I'll show him how to modify power armour. That means you're stuck with me.”

Quinn smiled shyly, feeling light-headed. “Good.”

Still, there was doubt in her mind. Had Danse fully considered the implications of what he was agreeing to?

“You know you're going to end up like a father to Charlie, right?” Quinn blurted out before she could stop herself.

Danse shifted a little in the bed, but his expression didn’t darken. On the contrary, he looked somewhat hopeful. “It had...crossed my mind.”

She bit her lip. “How do you feel about that?”

Danse shrugged. “That I've been given a chance most synths could only dream of.”

_“So what’s it gonna be? Marriage? Happily ever after?”_

Hancock’s comment came to mind, innocent enough but weighing on her. Did she really need marriage again to be happy? Quinn didn't think so, but....

Danse shrugged when she mentioned it. “If you’re not enthusiastic about the concept, then there’s no need to discuss it.” He smiled. “You have a husband already.”

“Had,” Quinn corrected. “I had a husband. He’s dead and I’m moving on.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean your relationship should be buried. He’s a part of your life, and if marriage is something you don’t want to repeat, then let it be his and yours alone.” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a ring to know I love you.”

“I can’t get used to you saying that.”

“Oh, uh,” Danse said, flushing. “I mean—”

Quinn smirked. “Say it again.”

His blush deepened, but he grinned. “I love you.”

“...again.”

“I love you.”

“Again!”

_“I love you.”_

Quinn felt her face settle into a wide smile. “I love you, too.”

Danse beamed at her.

Day had broken fully by the time Quinn forced herself to roll out of bed. She felt bad her friends were still looking after Charlie, but Danse promised her that Nick said he’d hold the fort for as long as they needed.

“Hancock worded it a little differently,” Danse continued, red creeping into his cheeks as he sat on the edge of the bed and stretched, “but they’ve no issues keeping an eye on him for a day or so.”

He pulled his clothes on, and then sidled over as Quinn tried to get dressed, standing behind her and kissing her neck.

“What are you doing?” she giggled, as she tried to get her shirt on, only for Danse to be in the way.

“Interfering,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her. “Anyone would in my position.”

“Your position?” Quinn glanced over her shoulder at him, raising her eyebrows.

“Mmm.” His hands cupped at her breasts as he kissed her neck again. “Enjoying what time we have alone before we go back.”

Quinn finally turned to face him, grinning. “Tell you what, let’s eat first and then we’ll see what mischief we can get up to.”

He shot her a cheeky smirk, and it struck Quinn how different he was to when she’d first met him. Would this ever have been achieved if they’d stayed in the Brotherhood? Maybe his true identity was the push required to strip away everything that had been holding him back. Or maybe he’d just needed something to focus on besides work.

Danse eventually let go of her after he had teased her half to death, laughing as she struggled to finish getting dressed.

“You know when I mentioned moving in before?” Quinn said, trying to force the mess of amorous thoughts out of her head.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind if we moved to your house?” She glanced in the direction of Sanctuary, though the walls of the truck stop blocked it from view, and then returned her attention to Danse. “Too many ghosts in mine. I want to leave it as a memorial and make a fresh start. With you.”

Danse stepped forward and kissed her. “Let’s go get your things.”

Quinn gently dug her finger into his stomach. “How many times? _Food first.”_

He rolled his eyes, but nodded. “Need any help?”

“Oh no. I’ve tried your cooking.”

“I make perfectly adequate, fully nutritional meals!”

“Danse, you managed to burn my pans poaching an egg.” Quinn put her hands on her hips. “I still can’t figure out how.” She started to giggle again. “Besides, if the only good thing you can say about your cooking is it’s adequate—”

“And nutritional!”

Quinn burst out laughing, leaning against him as her shoulders shook and tears sprang to her eyes. He held onto her, patting her on the back when she eventually calmed down.

“Fine. You might have a point.” He raised an eyebrow. “But at least I’ve never accidentally hatched live mirelurks in a freezer box.”

“That was one time!”

“Still counts.”

The next few minutes were taken up with playful bickering, only resolved when Quinn decided to fight dirty. Danse nearly fell over as she tickled him, before picking her up and pressing her against the wall with his body.

“Truce?” she mumbled as they kissed.

“Truce.”

They became lost in each other. Quinn pulled him closer, her fingers raking through his hair as she wrapped her legs around his middle. His hands gripped at her thighs, holding her up without any obvious effort.

Quinn laughed as they broke apart. “For God’s sake, Danse, are you determined not to eat?”

He shrugged, suddenly looking serious. “I haven’t felt like this since Rivet City. Can’t blame me for taking advantage of it.”

“Felt like what?”

“Young.”

Quinn gave a gentle smile and brushed against his cheek with her hand. “Carefree?”

The word startled him, but then he nodded, taking her fingers and pressing them to his lips. “I thought you might understand.” Slowly, he let her go, though he kept hold of her hand. She led him outside towards the campfire, fingers intertwined, and stared down at it, wondering how best to make breakfast.

As she pondered, though, she became aware of an acrid smell, and twitched her nose. The truck stop blocked Sanctuary from view, so Quinn glanced towards the sky. It was clear and blue. Frowning now, she tugged her hand free and walked towards the back of the building, following the scent. She looked over at Danse, who was still stood by the campfire. “Were you cooking out here last night?”

“No?” It was his turn to frown. “You already said I can’t cook. Why would I inflict that upon the world if it wasn’t necessary?”

Quinn didn’t laugh at his joke, but turned on the spot, sniffing the air. If the sky was clear, then Sanctuary wasn’t ablaze, and yet…

“Can you smell smoke?” she asked, beginning to wonder if she was going mad.

Looking slightly bemused now, he inhaled. “No, I…” His confusion turned to a frown. “Actually, I can. Smells like cigar smo...”

Danse’s sentence trailed away, a look of fear dawning on his face as his eyes locked on hers. _“Run!”_

“Wha—?” she began, but her question ended in a scream as his head snapped forward and he crumpled to the ground. She ran to him, but stopped as a figure materialised behind Danse, pointing a gun at her.

Quinn’s breath caught in her throat.

“Hello, Quinn,” Rachel Marguerie said, her teeth bared in a predator’s grin. “Fancy seeing you here.”

In Quinn’s absence there had been an obvious decline. Sallow-skinned and wearing dirty, crumpled uniform, Rachel was barely recognisable, her manic eyes nestled in heavy, dark circles. Worst of all was Rachel’s hair, which was normally scooped back in a sleek, neat bun. Now it was a straggled mess, sections of it trailing down her back.

Her tone was calm and level...the most frightening thing Quinn had ever heard. She glanced down at Danse, biting hard on her lip. Judging by the gun in Rachel’s hand, he’d been pistol whipped. Thank God he wasn’t killed outright, though Quinn suspected Rachel had other plans for the two of them.

Danse was lying in the dirt, clutching at the wound in his head. He let go and stared stupidly at his shaking, blood-soaked fingers, before his eyes flicked to Quinn. They were filled with confused fear, but she lost sight of them as Rachel stepped down on his neck, pushing him into the ground.

“Fucking pathetic,” she spat, the awful grin slipping into a sneer of disgust. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Danse gasped under her boot, but as Quinn opened her mouth to protest, another ripple shimmered in the air. Carson appeared next to Rachel, his rifle pointed at Quinn. He was ashen-faced, throwing frantic glances between the knight-sergeant and Quinn while he trembled on the spot.

“Carson?” Quinn said, suddenly feeling faint. Not him. Not _Carson._

He didn't answer, but stared back without blinking, begging her to understand. And she did. It was the church all over again, but this time her role was Deacon. Maybe one day, Carson would justify it to himself, the way she had tried to justify her own betrayal. But Quinn knew then she was finally going to die.

“I trusted you,” Rachel whispered, all emotion gone, her face utterly barren. “I placed my faith in you. I _respected_ you. But not only did you let this _thing_ live—” She waved her gun towards Danse, who was still pinned on the floor. “—but you also bring a synth back from the Institute and try to pass it off as your _son?”_

“The only synth here is me—” Danse’s words were choked off as she pressed down hard with her foot.

“Machines don't get to _speak,”_ Rachel hissed, and for one heart-stopping moment Quinn thought she’d snap his neck. But then Rachel relaxed the pressure, directing her suffocating gaze back at Quinn. “I pieced the evidence together. From the moment you threw yourself at that boy in the Institute, I knew. But I waited. Bided my time. Hoped your behaviour was just shock and that I was wrong about _it._ I wasn’t wrong.”

Carson’s mouth fell open in surprise. So Rachel hadn’t told him of her suspicions?

“I only came here to see if you were alright,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “I had almost convinced myself I was paranoid about the boy. So imagine my surprise when I see _this_ still alive.”

She pushed on Danse’s neck again, and he made a noise of pain. What little restraint Rachel had left was a guillotine, hanging over his life on a fraying thread. Quinn didn’t answer, watching with alarm as patches of colour began to grow in Rachel’s cheeks.

“At first, I thought you had gone rogue. But then another problem occurred to me,” the knight-sergeant said quietly. “Maxson went to this machine’s execution, and when he came back, he said the job was done.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why did he lie?”

“He—”

“He allowed it to _live,”_ Rachel snarled. She paused, letting the statement hang in the air. “This isn’t just you, Quinn. He allowed a synth that had infiltrated our ranks to _live._ The leader of the Brotherhood of Steel is part of this damn conspiracy—a traitor! And Kells needs to bring him down.”

The future was laid out in front of Quinn: loyalty turned toxic, Maxson’s monumental moment of mercy a double edged sword, allowing the Elders of the West to cut their pound of flesh. Rachel would ruin Maxson without hesitation.

The knight-sergeant removed her foot, hauled Danse to his knees, and pushed the barrel of the gun to his head. He was still so dazed, he didn’t fight back.

Quinn started forward, overwhelmed with panic.

“One more step and I’ll blow its fucking head off!” Rachel put her finger on the trigger.

Quinn stopped in her tracks.

“Not that it makes a difference,” she said, the nasty grin returning with a vengeance. “First I’m going to kill him. Then that disgusting vermin masquerading as your son—”

“No!”

“—and _then,”_ Rachel shouted over Quinn’s pleas, “I’m going to haul you back to Kells. You can watch as Maxson and all his hidden traitors _burn.”_

“Rachel,” Carson said, alarm etched into his face. “He’s just a kid—”

“It isn’t a child. It isn’t _human.”_

“You said we were here to check up on Quinn, not start murdering innocent people!”

“Shut it!” Rachel snarled, not taking her eyes off Quinn. “Synths. Aren’t. _People!_ And anyone who helps them and their spies are traitors!”

Carson fell silent, but Quinn sensed the doubt. Whether he would stand up to Rachel was another matter. Without him, though, Quinn couldn’t see a way out of this. Maybe that was why he was avoiding her eye—trying to tell himself she really was a traitor.

Quinn turned her attention back to Danse. He’d regained some focus, staring at her and ignoring the gun at his head. His expression was fearful, but also soft—accepting of his own fate, scared for Quinn’s instead. Maybe if she attacked Rachel first...

Even as Quinn ran the scenario over in her head, she knew it was hopeless. Rachel was bigger than her, stronger than her, and a crack shot to boot. Whatever Quinn did, she would lose her child and the man she loved for a second time.

“We’ve worked together for years, Marguerie,” Danse said suddenly, “and if there’s one thing I know about you—”

Rachel pulled harder on his hair. “I told you. Machines don’t get to _talk.”_

“You are _not_ a child killer!”

Rachel froze.

There was a long silence as the knight-sergeant stared down at him, the knuckles on both hands white. Danse turned his eyes up towards her, the look he gave her sharp and commanding—an echo of his revoked rank.

“The Knight-Sergeant Marguerie I know wouldn’t hurt a child.”

“It isn’t a child.”

_“He is a child._ He looks like a child, acts like a child, _thinks like a child._ What difference does it make that he was made? He’s as innocent as any kid would be.” Danse glared at her. “And I think you know this. Why else would you be standing here instead of killing us outright?”

Rachel bent down, her face inches from Danse’s. “Is that an invitation?”

“It’s a fact,” he retorted. “You’re torn on what to do. Everything you ever placed your faith in has been put into question, and you’d rather kill us all than entertain the notion that your ideals might be wrong.”

_“They are traitors!”_

“No, they just showed me compassion!” Danse shot back. “Maxson realised I wasn’t a threat and let me go! He gave me a _chance!”_

“A chance?” Rachel straightened up, and by the tone of her voice Quinn knew it had been the wrong thing to say. “A _chance?_ Why do _you_ get a chance? I had to abandon my husband and child for something that wasn’t their fucking fault! Where was their chance?”

“No one made you abandon them,” Danse said, looking almost as angry as Rachel. “That was your choice!”

“Don’t spout bullshit about _‘choice.’_ You know damn well the Brotherhood would have done something about it.” She bared her teeth like a wolf, her face twisted into a hideous scowl. “But _you?_ Special treatment from an unworthy Elder. What about my daughter?”

“Marguerie—”

Rachel’s scream cut like a knife. _“What about my Sarah?”_

The final word rang out in the open air.

Sarah.

_“Have you seen her since?”_  
  
“Once.”

A ghoul child, her father taken by mutants. No mother to speak of, as if she never existed.

_“I helped organise safe passage for them to another part of the country, in a ghoul-only settlement.”_

A knight-sergeant, eager to protect a village of ghouls with no valid explanation.

_“Those fucking assholes kill kids.”_

A husband recently dead, the letter of notification absent.

_“I burned it.”_

Realisation hit Quinn with the force of a truck.

All the pieces falling neatly into place. Close by, but with no indication of a connection. A ghoul that aged—Danse didn’t realise he’d already met her. Each insignificant event woven into a tapestry of stark, blinding truth. So inconspicuous. So obvious.

_“The Commonwealth will be free. Maybe I’ll go see my daughter.”_

“Sarah,” Quinn mumbled. “The little ghoul girl from the Slog.”

Rachel went chalk white. The gun in her hand lowered slightly, her grip on Danse’s hair loosening enough that he could move his head to look at Quinn. The knight-sergeant didn’t seem to notice, her eyes wide and distant as she shook on the spot. Her carefully guarded secret was crumbling around her.

Danse blinked with confusion. “No, that's—”

Rachel wrenched Danse’s head back, slammed her pistol against his temple, and pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo remember when I said I had free rein?
> 
> ...yeah.
> 
> Also, kudos to anyone who caught all the Rachel wolf references scattered throughout the fic leading up to this chapter. I feel the lyrics to Radiohead’s ‘A Wolf at the Door’ fit Rachel very well, and wanted to build to that. A beautifully chilling song and an equally excellent music video. I strongly recommend it.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvBPCm25z4I


	66. Homo Homini Lupus

_Click._

Danse blinked. The gun had jammed.

He dove out of the way just as Carson lunged for Marguerie and punched her in the face. She staggered, threw her broken pistol at him, and then went for the laser rifle in Carson’s hand.

Danse got unsteadily to his feet as the two soldiers fought, the back of his head throbbing. Everything was spinning and he found it difficult to focus. Quinn was at his side in an instant, pulling on his arm. They had to leave. He knew they had to leave. But if they went without dealing with Marguerie first, she could easily ambush them again.

Just as he came to this conclusion, Marguerie wrenched the rifle from Carson’s grasp and opened fire. Quinn screamed as Carson crumpled to the ground, and as she ran to her friend, Marguerie turned the gun on Quinn.

“No!” Danse barrelled into the knight-sergeant, sending them both to the dirt. Fists flew as they began their own battle over the weapon, shots of red light firing off at random. Quinn tried to intervene, but Marguerie was more than ready for her, kicking out and putting Quinn on her back.

Danse’s head rocked as Marguerie’s blows landed, each punch a sledgehammer. He hit back with everything he could, pulling at the gun until it finally came free. It spun from his grasp and out of sight, though from the corner of his eye, he saw Quinn move. Seconds later, she yelled.

“Danse, get out of the way!”

Danse did as he was told, and Marguerie froze as Quinn pointed the rifle at her.

_Click._

“Fuck!” Quinn hissed, dropping to her knees and fumbling through Carson’s pockets to find more microfusion cells.

The pause was everything that Marguerie needed. Danse saw stars as she headbutted him. There was a crunch and an explosion of pain searing through his face. He felt something warm run into his mouth, and he spat blood into the dirt while Marguerie rolled back, pulled out the second pistol he forgot she always carried, and took aim.

Danse stared down into the barrel of her gun for a split second, when the rifle flew into Marguerie from nowhere. Her round went wild as her pistol flew from her hands, both guns skittering away, out of reach.

Without pause, Marguerie drew out her combat knife and advanced on Quinn. Danse was on his feet in seconds, taking hold of Marguerie’s arms and dragging her back. The knight-sergeant kicked out, booting Quinn in the head and sending her to the ground again, and then drove her knife into Danse’s thigh. As he yelled, Marguerie pulled herself free from his grasp and started slashing recklessly.

Danse tried to move, but his injured leg slowed him down. Hot pain burned as the blade repeatedly found its mark, cutting slices through his clothes and into his skin. Suddenly Marguerie launched herself forward, bringing the knife down in a swinging arc. Danse lashed out, catching her blade arm and rewarding himself with another injury. But his fist also hit her jaw, and her attack missed. She staggered sideways, dazed, as he tripped over his own feet and fell, staring up at the woman he had once trusted with his life. There was nothing human left, an empty husk of rage and grief.

Quinn was slowly getting to her feet, clutching her face and stumbling a little, but Marguerie’s attention had already snapped back to him. By the time Quinn got her bearings, he’d probably be dead.

As he pushed himself back, Danse’s hand touched something cold and heavy.

A pistol.

Was it the working one? He didn’t know. No time to check. He picked it up as Marguerie stepped towards him.

A crack filled the air. The knight-sergeant's head snapped back and she fell to the ground.

No one spoke as they stared at Marguerie’s body. Quinn broke the spell, running over to him and dropping to her knees. She plucked at his clothes as she tried to check his wounds. He yanked her close, breathing heavily through his mouth, finally aware of the way his heart hammered in his chest. Quinn was safe. Marguerie was dead. He rocked Quinn in his arms, feeling numb, until she pulled away.

“Are you alright?” Her busted lip was trembling and blood was smeared across her face, courtesy of Marguerie’s foot. Her cheek was also swollen, and clear bruises were already beginning to form, partially hidden by the muddy boot print stamped into her skin.

Danse nodded weakly, his head still spinning, and tried to stand. Pain shot through his leg, and he groaned, clutching at it.

“Quinn! Danse!”

Frantic footsteps, strangled yells. Danse looked over his shoulder to see Quinn’s friends— _their_ friends—sprinting towards them, all armed and ready for a fight. Hancock was at the front, Nick and Preston close at his heels. They stopped dead as they saw Marguerie’s crumpled form lying feet away from Danse and Quinn.

“Brotherhood?” Hancock said sharply.

“Think...working alone,” Danse replied, his words slurring as his head swam. He felt nauseous...dizzy. How the hell he’d managed to fight Marguerie off like this, he’d no idea. His hands fumbled at his shirt, trying to tear a strip off so he could tie it around his wounded leg, but his fingers kept slipping on the slick, bloodied fabric.

Nick knelt down next to him and batted his hands away, finishing the job with ease.

“Thanks,” mumbled Danse, pressing a hand to the back of his head and wincing.

“No problem.” Nick carefully pulled Danse to his feet without any difficulty. It occurred to Danse how strong Nick actually was—so much raw power, and all he’d ever done was help people.

A gurgled moan behind them made Hancock snap his shotgun to the ready, and for one heart-stopping moment, Danse thought Marguerie might still be alive. He wasn’t sure whether he was elated or fearful of this possibility. Quinn scrambled to her feet and darted between Hancock and the source of the moans.

“No!” she cried, throwing her arms out wide. “He’s my friend!”

“You just said he tried to kill you!” Hancock said, his eyes narrowing as he tried to step past her.

“Hancock!”

Danse’s heart sunk. Not Marguerie. He shuffled on the spot, and Nick took the hint, helping Danse to turn to face the scene.

Carson lay splayed on the ground, twitching and shivering. He was ashy-skinned and dripping with sweat, his dazed eyes still holding enough life to be tinged with terror. Carson’s hands were pressed against his charred and roasted flesh, the uniform at his stomach completely burned away. Blood and other liquid oozed from between his fingers, and at a glance, it looked as if his holotags had fused into his skin.

A pitying sight. Danse wanted him to die, if only to spare Carson a drawn out death.

“He attacked Rachel! He saved our lives!” Quinn snapped, not letting Hancock pass.

“Our lives might not have needed saving if it hadn’t been for him,” Danse said slowly, gripping at Nick as the pain in his head increased. “Leave him.”

He knew he was talking from a place of anger. He’d just severed his last connection to the Brotherhood, orphaning a child in the process. The grief and the rage towards Marguerie’s actions and his own were all-consuming, and he wanted no reminders of his transgressions. Let the man die. Danse had now murdered two teammates. What was one more?

_“Fuck that,”_ Quinn shot back, still standing between Hancock and Carson. “We save him. He can tell us whether the rest of the Brotherhood know you’re here, Danse.”

She was just saying it so she wouldn’t have to kill Carson. Quinn was soft, in that regard. Not like him. Danse had always been able to do what was necessary.

Cutler’s face surfaced in his mind, warping into something inhuman and hideous. Thick hands pinning him down, the green, monstrous figure twisting further until suddenly it was Marguerie at his throat.

Marguerie. He had just _killed_ Marguerie.

“Woah, Danse. Stay with us!”

Danse sagged in Nick’s arms, the detective’s voice sounding far away. God, his head _hurt._ He turned to see that Preston and Hancock were already on their way back to Sanctuary, half dragging, half carrying Carson with them at a quick pace.

“Danse?” Quinn touched his face, her eyes full of fear.

“I'm fine.” The adrenaline was wearing off, the shakes and pains taking its place. His head was a whirling, groggy mess, his chest burned, and his leg could barely support him.

And... _Marguerie._

He was far from fine, but he wasn’t dying either. “Just a flashback.”

Quinn nodded though her expression didn't change. She turned to Nick. “Where’s Shaun?”

Nick didn’t bother to correct her error. “He’s with Codsworth.”

“Why didn’t you leave him with MacCready?”

“Because the second we saw the laserfire, MacCready went for his sniper rifle,” Nick replied, shifting his grip on Danse as he helped him follow the trail to the settlement. “The truck stop and the houses blocked most of the fight off—but it was easy enough to guess the Brotherhood were involved. He stayed to try and take a clean shot if anyone strayed out into the open.”

“But Shau—I mean—Charlie!”

Nick’s gentle tone grew firmer. “Quinn, he’s fine. Take a deep breath and stop panicking. Let’s pay our visiting doctor a call. He’ll patch everyone up.”

Quinn’s face went blank, her lips mouthing _‘Weathers,’_ before her expression suddenly darkened. “I'll make sure he will.”

* * *

The shock of the other settlers was blatant as they hurriedly reached the barricades.

“Danse?”

“We heard gunshots but we didn't think it was anything—”

“You're hurt—”

“Quinn!”

MacCready slung his rifle over his shoulder as he clambered down from his sniping spot and sprinted towards her. “What the hell happened? I saw that guy being brought up. Did the Brotherhood—?”

“Rachel’s dead,” Quinn said flatly, before blinking. Her own words stung. No, this wasn't real yet. Keep going. Think later.

“W-what?” MacCready stepped back. He deserved a kinder delivery, but there wasn't time for it.

“I’m sorry, but…” Quinn bit her lip. “She saw Danse, and she attacked us. We haven’t checked she’s definitely dead yet. I need...I…”

“You...want me to make sure?” MacCready asked, his fists clenching.

“I want you to make sure she doesn’t _move._ She threatened to kill Charlie. If she’s still alive and she makes it back to Maxson, this place will burn.”

For a second, all MacCready could do was gape at her. But then as if the grief had simply been switched off, his face relaxed and he closed his mouth. “Got it, boss.” He ran down the street without another word.

Quinn glanced over her shoulder just as he disappeared out of view. The one other person who cared about Rachel, and she’d just sent him to kill her...or guard over her corpse.

Carson was dying, if not dead. Danse could also follow suit, whether by the blow Rachel delivered to his head or the blood that was steadily spreading across his trouser leg. If Carson died, there was no way of knowing what the Brotherhood were planning, if anything. But she didn’t want to leave Danse alone while he was hurt. And she still needed to check on Charlie.

_“Fuck,”_ she hissed, shaking her head and continuing with Nick and Danse. No time. No fucking _time._

As they drew closer to the top of the street, Quinn saw Doc Weathers in the distance, arguing with Hancock. Her eyes narrowed, and she stopped. Doc Weathers hadn’t seen Danse at the settlement yet, and she’d no intention of changing that unless absolutely necessary.

“Take him in there,” Quinn said to Nick, slipping Danse’s arm off her shoulder as she pointed to one of the few unoccupied houses. “I’ll get Preston to look over him when he’s left Carson with Weathers.”

“Uh, okay?” Nick said, clearly confused.

Danse gripped at Quinn’s sleeve, his eyes wild. “No, don’t—”

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” she said, placing her hand over his and firmly pulling herself free. “I just don’t want Charlie to see you like this.”

Quinn wondered if Danse could sense the lie, because he clung to her for a few seconds longer before finally letting go. No argument. Just silent defeat. Nick threw a puzzled look her way as he led Danse into the house. Quinn felt guilty at leaving him alone, but she had to be cold. Too much to do. If she stopped to think, the enormity of what had just happened would consume her. Personal feelings could come later. Her son was her priority, and to keep him safe, she needed to speak to Carson.

And to speak to Carson...

Doc Weathers was frantically packing up his brahmin by the time Quinn reached him. Panic-stricken and looking thoroughly ruffled, he spoke in a high-pitched voice as he tried to jam armfuls of hydra and med-x into an already overflowing satchel.

“It’s a goddamn emergency!” snapped Hancock, who was being restrained by Weathers’ caravan guards. It was a wonder that they simply hadn’t shot him on the spot, though Quinn suspected that had something to do with his status as Mayor of Goodneighbor. “What, you’re just gonna let the kid die? We’ll _pay_ for fuck’s sake!”

“Where’s Carson?” Quinn asked as she approached.

Hancock’s arms were being held by the guards, so he tilted his head in the direction of Sturges’ house. “Cleanest place in the settlement. Preston is keeping him going with stimpaks, but it’s not looking good.” He turned to glare at one of the guards. “And if you wiseguys don’t let go of me in one second, I’ll—”

“I understand it's an emergency,” Doc Weathers said, “but I'm not getting involved in the Brotherhood’s squabbles! Too risky! Too—!”

His words cut off with a squeal as Quinn marched forward and grabbed the front of his shirt. The caravan guards glanced between Quinn and Hancock, like they were trying to decide who was the bigger threat, before keeping a firm hold on the latter.

“I’ve remembered where I've seen your name,” Quinn hissed, giving him a little shake. “I know who lined your pockets. I saw it on their terminals.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Doc Weathers said immediately, though he began to tremble.

“Whose terminals?” Hancock asked, his eyes narrowing. Even the guards had relaxed their grip, staring at the doctor.

“Now look here—” Doc Weathers said, his eyes begging for her to stay quiet.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Quinn said, though she gave Hancock a look that she hoped he would understand.

_I’ll tell you later._

Hancock nodded and fell silent.

She turned back to Doc Weathers. “Either you patch up Carson right now, or I'll make sure everyone knows your dirty little secret. _Especially_ the Brotherhood. Being blacklisted by the Commonwealth’s cities will be the least of your worries.”

Weathers looked from Quinn to Hancock and his own caravan guards. All three were staring suspiciously at him. His shoulders sagged as he closed his eyes and nodded. “Alright.”

“Good.” Quinn let go of him. “Do you know how to treat laser burns?” She expected she’d need to get the burn gel recipe off Danse.

“Yes.” When he noticed her frown, he embellished. “I served as a military doctor with the NCR some years back. But I left before the battle of Hoover Dam. I felt my fortunes lay elsewhere.”

“You mean you went AWOL?” Quinn said bluntly.

Weathers shrugged. “Whatever you want to call it.”

“Just get Carson sorted. I need to go see my son.” Quinn looked at Hancock. “Make sure he doesn't try to leave.”

Hancock glared at the caravan guards until they finally let go of him, and then said to Quinn, “Sure, but wipe your face first. You're covered in blood. Don't wanna give the kid any nightmares.”

Quinn followed his advice, walking into Sturges’ house to find a bottle of water. As she did, she saw Preston bent over Carson on Sturges’ beautifully crafted table, empty stimpaks and med-x syringes in a little pile on the floor. Carson looked completely out of it now, his eyes blankly turned up to the ceiling. The smell of burnt meat was more prominent in this enclosed space.

Rachel Marguerie flashed to mind, her face contorted with pure hatred as she rushed forward with her knife. The struggle with Danse, the empty rifle...her body on the floor.

“Quinn?”

Gentle hands grasped at her shoulders, and Quinn realised Preston was in front of her. The concern was clear on his face, but she shook him off, pushing Rachel to the back of her mind.

“Just need some water. Need to be presentable for Shaun—I mean—Charlie.” Quinn strode across the kitchen, averting her gaze from Carson. She couldn’t look at him. Not just yet. She’d spared him from Hancock, though she wasn’t sure why—information was only a part of it. He’d tried to kill her. Why was she saving him?

“Quinn.” Preston’s voice was stronger, and when she tried to shake him off the second time, he kept hold of her. “You need to take a moment. You’re in shock. And someone’s clearly kicked you in the head. You could have a concussion.”

Quinn ignored him, opening the water bottle and splashing her face with it, before scrubbing her skin with a clean patch of her sleeve.

_“Quinn.”_

“I don’t have the luxury of sitting on my ass, waiting to get a grip of things,” she snapped, her face stinging a little. She had rubbed it raw. “What I _need_ is to make sure Carson lives long enough for me to question him. So please...just focus on keeping _him_ —” Quinn jerked her thumb in Carson’s direction. “—alive until Doc Weathers takes over. And then help Danse. He’s with Nick in the blue house by the barricades.”

“At _least_ let me check for a concussion.”

Quinn made an impatient noise but let him check her over. He took his time, disregarding her fidgeting and huffs, commenting how it was lucky her nose had been missed by the obvious blow to her face. When he finished, he stepped back and nodded, wearing a frown laced with worry. “General.”

She left before the guilt could catch up with her. Being rude to Preston felt like kicking a puppy, but it was taking all her self control to keep calm. The smell of Carson’s seared flesh infested her senses. Rachel’s face was burned into her brain—her horrified expression as Sarah’s location was revealed to the world. And then...

Quinn halted, feet from her house, and took a deep breath. She couldn’t see Charlie in this state. Clear her mind, push back the chaos. Banish Rachel from her thoughts.

_One, two, three…_

She exhaled, some of the tension leaving. Slowly, her legs stopped shaking, and Quinn managed to make herself walk again, though her limbs were heavy.

“Mom?” Charlie jumped up from the sofa as she stepped through the front door, scattering comic books everywhere. By the looks of things, he’d slept there, too.

“What happened to your bedtime?” Quinn asked, trying to sound stern, though her voice cracked.

“What happened to your face?” he asked, oblivious to her question. He chewed on his fingers, his eyes wide.

She considered lying to him. Protecting him, in a sense. But the time for shielding Charlie had long since passed. Whatever the future held, he needed to know the danger. Crouching down, Quinn drew him into a tight hug.

She told him the watered down version, leaving out the more gory details, but still emphasising that someone was dead. Quinn had no idea what was happening with Rachel, but the last thing she wanted was Charlie seeing a body without expecting it.

Charlie was quiet for a moment. “Is Mr. Danse hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Will he be okay?”

“I...don't know.” How bad were things? He hadn't bled out yet, which meant the stab wound in his leg missed anything important, but he’d seemed dazed and mixed up once the fight was over.

Quinn suspected Danse would be fine, but the worry was there. And she couldn't take him to Weathers.

She had seen Weathers’ name on an informant list many months ago, while she’d been poking through an Institute terminal. Individuals who were tasked with alerting the coursers to runaway synths. Quinn hadn't thought anything of it at the time—why would she? She’d assumed Danse was human back then.

Weathers’ masters were gone, but that wouldn't stop him blabbing to the Brotherhood if he got wind that Danse was supposed to be dead.

Keep them apart. Keep Weathers fearful of the Brotherhood and what they might do if they learned of his old associations. Quinn hoped it would be enough.

“Can I go see Mr. Danse?” Charlie asked.

“Not now, honey,” she said snuggling him. She didn't want to let go, clinging to this brief respite from reality. As soon as they broke apart, there was hell to deal with. Quinn kissed his cheek. “I love you, sweetie, and I won't ever let anyone hurt you. Neither will Danse.”

“Is that why he killed that lady?”

“Yes,” Quinn replied. “And if he hadn't, then I would have instead.”

Charlie was pale, but he nodded. “Thanks, mom.”

“I'm gonna leave you with Codsworth, okay? You need to do everything he tells you.”

“Okay, mom.”

“Good boy.” She kissed him on the head and then hesitated. Any second now, they would separate. She could feel the events of the day clawing at her brain, demanding to be recognised. Only the presence of her son kept them at bay.

Reluctantly, Quinn let Charlie go. Codsworth floated in the background, keeping tactfully quiet. She motioned for him to follow her outside.

“Mum?” he said as they stepped into the street.

“I'm fine,” she replied, feeling anything but. “I need you to look after Charlie for me, please. There’s trouble, and it might be coming for me.” She paused. “If anything happens, take Charlie and head to the hotel in Goodneighbor. I'll try and meet you there.”

“Do you think it’s likely?”

“I don't know. But I want to be prepared. I'm placing my son’s life in your hands. If the worst…” She swallowed. “Please keep him safe.”

“Yes, mum.”

Quinn smiled, nodded, and then turned away. She managed to keep her pace at a steady walk for a few feet, before the dam finally broke. Panic crashed down around her, and she was suddenly swept away with it, sprinting down the street.

Danse.

What if he was a lot more hurt than she thought? What if he was dying, and she’d been wasting their last few precious moments together trying to be collected and responsible?

What if—?

Danse looked up as Quinn burst into the house. He sat on the arm of the sofa, eyes glazed, his face covered in blood from his dripping, broken nose. His shirt was on the floor at his feet, the gashes in his chest oozing and crusting.

Nick removed a stimpak from the base of Danse’s skull and set it down on the coffee table. “That right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Preston said, with a short nod. He spared a quick glance in her direction, before continuing to work on stitching Danse’s leg. “Just been dealing with his concussion.”

The room remained silent as Preston worked, Nick returning to his corner and chain smoking while Quinn walked over and squeezed Danse’s hand.

_He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay._

She was drowning. She could see it all, order lost in a flurry of violent images. Rachel stalking her prey, Danse on the ground with a pistol in hand. Carson, silently begging for forgiveness while he stood by and did nothing. Carson again, choked with pain as his skin cracked and bubbled.

The rifle, empty. The knife, bloody. A moment of hesitation. A battle of _desperation._ Was it terror or loathing burning in those dark eyes as steel slashed and hacked through old friends?

Quinn didn’t know. She didn’t know and she couldn’t cope with it anymore. She pressed Danse’s hand to her forehead, trying to cling on to the scraps of her life that weren’t marred by death. And then his hand twitched, turning so that his palm rested against her cheek.

Quinn looked up, and her eyes met his. Soft brown ones—loving, kind. His thumb stroked her skin, and she placed her hand on top of his, biting her lip.

Slowly, Danse’s concussion lifted, though the emptiness remained. He didn't say a word until after Preston finished the stitches on his leg and tended to the gashes in his chest. Even then Danse only mumbled, “Thank you.”

Nick and Preston were tactful enough to leave the house without being asked. Quinn moved closer, gripping at his arms as they stared at each other. Who would touch the subject first?

“I know what you're going to say,” Danse said before Quinn could open her mouth.

She hesitated. “It needs to be said. It's—”

“I _know_ it's not my fault,” he interrupted, scowling. “Doesn't change what happened...or how I feel about it.” His face softened. “I don't want to dump her in some hole in the wasteland. I want to bury her properly. Or at least as best I can.”

Quinn wasn't surprised, but she still had to ask the question. “Why?”

“Same reason you're trying to save Carson.”

They both fell quiet.

After a minute or so, Quinn asked, “Will you stay?”

He glanced up sharply. “Do you want me to?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

“If I draw any more risk to Charlie…”

“Charlie is always going to be at risk. He's a synth and he lives in the wasteland. I’d rather someone be here who understands him and the shit he's going to have to deal with.”

Danse studied her for a moment and then relaxed. “You really mean that.”

“Of course I do,” Quinn replied, rolling her eyes. She paused and reached up to him again. “Your nose is broken…”

He flinched but didn't move away from her. “I'll live.”

They were playing it safe, talking like nothing had happened. She was happy to keep up the charade for now. Quinn used the rest of her bottle of water and another section of her jacket to clean his face as carefully as possible, revealing the heavy bruising underneath the blood. He sniffed and winced, but stayed put until she was done.

The awkward silence returned.

“I don’t understand,” Danse said suddenly, “about Rachel’s daughter.”

Quinn wondered when the topic would come up. There was so much Danse didn’t know, so much she was barely grasping herself. But the more she thought on it, the more obvious it seemed. Or maybe she was looking for links where there weren’t any.

“Rachel’s Sarah was around six when she became a ghoul,” Danse continued, frowning. “Sarah from the Slog looks much older than that. Ghouls don’t age. How can they be the same person?”

Quinn rubbed her forehead and sighed. Where to begin?

In the end, she decided to begin the tale from when Danse left her on the Prydwen. The way she and Rachel had bonded over their children. How Rachel had told Quinn her daughter’s strange condition of aging. The later conversation between Quinn and Senior Scribe Neriah and why some ghouls _could_ age.

“And there were little bits and pieces over the last few months,” Quinn said, noting Danse’s blank expression. “She went with MacCready to protect The Slog, in her own time, without wanting any kind of payment. Afterwards, Mac said she went off on her own, though he didn’t know where. When I came back to the Prydwen, she told me she’d received a letter of notification that her husband was dead.”

“When we were at The Slog,” Danse said, his voice flat, “before the fight against the mutants...I spoke with Sarah. She said her father had already been taken by them.”

Quinn shivered. She could see it now, a frantic Rachel fighting tooth and nail to protect her family from the Gunners. Celebrating with MacCready in a moment of drunken weakness, and then feeling guilty about it afterwards. Leaving, maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband and daughter before returning to the ship...only to find out one of them was long dead.

Quinn felt cold despair gripping at her stomach. “I wish I could have helped her.”

Danse shook his head. “Marguerie refuses every opportunity of help offered to her. That’s just who she is...was. Eventually, someone would have made the connection, and she would have reacted in the same way. The Brotherhood isn’t above execution as a form of discipline.”

Didn’t Quinn know it. But she also got the feeling that if Danse’s status as a synth had never been revealed, Rachel may never have lost her grip on reality so spectacularly. She told Danse things none of her other friends had known about. Even if Danse had maintained his attitude towards ghouls, he would have assisted Rachel with protecting her family. Quinn was certain of this.

None of that mattered now, though. Rachel was dead.

Danse reached out and pulled her close, resting his chin on her shoulder as he held her tight. “I am so lucky to have you.”

Quinn didn’t ask why. She stroked the back of his head, her heart racing as she thought how close she’d come to losing him today—to losing everything. There was no doubt in her mind that Rachel would have carried out her word and attacked Charlie too. Was Sanctuary safe to live in anymore? Maybe they should relocate...but to where? The rest of the country was likely in a similar state of barren chaos, and taking Charlie across such a landscape almost guaranteed his death. The Castle was too close to the Prydwen. The other settlements were just as vulnerable.

Perhaps she was overthinking it. If Carson’s reaction was anything to go by, then he and Rachel were working alone. Quinn _prayed_ they were working alone.

“Can I bury Marguerie here?” Danse asked, his words muffled by her clothes.

Quinn pulled away from him and stared. Then her expression relaxed. She understood. “We can bury her near Nate. Make our own version of Arlington.”

She wasn’t sure if Danse knew what Arlington Cemetery was, but he didn’t question her statement. Instead, he gave a faint smile of thanks and tried to stand up.

“Woah!” Quinn placed her hands on his chest, holding him in place. The new bandages that covered the wounds Rachel carved into him were slightly damp and already starting to tinge red. “You’re injured. Let me do it.”

How easy it was to pretend this didn’t bother her. Quinn was staggered by her own act.

“No.” Danse brushed her hands aside and got to his feet, picking up his slashed and bloodied shirt and pulling it back on. He didn’t elaborate but walked past her without further argument.

“Danse!” Quinn grabbed his arm and tried to hold him in place.

He turned to look at her, patient but determined. “I killed her. She was my teammate. My responsibility. I’m going to put her to rest.”

“She was under my command at one point too!” Quinn shot back, though in all honesty she didn’t care much about that. All she wanted was to make sure he didn’t overexert himself, even if the idea of going near Rachel’s body made her skin crawl.

Danse fixed her with a steady stare. “I’m going to bury her. This isn’t up for debate, and you’re not going to stop me. Let me go.”

Quinn considered arguing more, but one look at his expression told her it was pointless. Slowly, she let go of his arm, and after a second he stepped forward and kissed the top of her head.

“Go see how Carson is doing. I know you’re worried about him.” Then he left, limping from the house and out of sight.

* * *

Marguerie was cold to the touch.

Danse found her inside the Red Rocket truck stop. MacCready had dragged her into the building, leaving a trail of blood in the grey dirt, and then covered her with his own coat. Now he was sitting next to her, staring ahead, his rifle in his hands.

Danse said nothing as he limped over, a small hiss of pain escaping his lips when he knelt down next to her. He only hesitated before he leaned over to take hold of the coat, uncertain if he could do this. He’d sounded so self-assured when convincing Quinn to back off. Now Danse wanted to do nothing but run.

Steeling himself, he pulled away the heavy cover.

The first thing Danse was drawn to was the most obvious: the wound in her head. Ugly, but neat. The way most bullet entrances were. The back was a different matter. He could see the shards of bone and flesh that clung to the matted remnants of her hair, and decided not to inspect any further. Danse turned his attention to her face instead.

Her naturally pale skin had taken on a mottled look, grey in hue and purpling where her face pressed against the floor. Congealed trails of blood ran from her mouth, nose, and the entrance wound, drying but still dully glistening. Bruises lurked under the dirt and darkened trickles, echoes of her last fight with him.

There was one saving grace. MacCready had already closed her eyes, and Danse was thankful. Marguerie’s eyes were full of fire and conviction, a hint of mischief dancing in their dark depths. To see them glassy, empty...that would make this all too _real._

Death normally didn’t bother Danse. He was a soldier after all. But this was a death of his own making, a death of a friend. Unlike Cutler, Marguerie still looked human.

Well, maybe not. He’d caught only glimpses of her face in the final moments, and yet it was enough to see anything human had died. She’d been feral, attacking with no thought for herself or anyone else around her. She’d turned on Carson, threatened a child, plotted the end of everyone on the Prydwen...

And she was cold to the touch.

Danse rested his hand against her face, her chill spreading to him.

Where the hell did he go from here?

It was a question that could wait. For now, he needed to get her back to Sanctuary. Ignoring the pain in his leg, Danse hauled her into his arms. She was rigid and difficult to hold, her flesh flat where her body had been in contact with the floor, but he managed to get a grip on her.

Danse tried to stand. At once, white hot burning shot through his thigh, and he groaned, nearly dropping her.

There was movement behind him, and another pair of hands steadied him. They hooked under his arms and helped him to his feet. Danse turned to see MacCready at his side, oddly sombre, but wearing a look that reminded him so much of Marguerie. MacCready pulled his coat back over Marguerie’s body, and then waited for Danse at the door.

Despite only coming up to Danse’s chin, MacCready stayed with him every step of the way back to Sanctuary. He grabbed hold of Danse every time his leg threatened to give out, nearly getting himself knocked over in the process.

The settlers were quiet as Danse limped into town, slowly making his way to Quinn’s house. No one could ignore the body in his arms, but thankfully no one commented on it either.

With MacCready’s help, he set Marguerie down in the opposite corner of the yard from Nate’s grave. As he did, though, MacCready’s coat slipped off, and Marguerie’s pocket caught on the white picket fence. There was a loud ripping noise, and a collection of items fell to the ground.

A lighter, a few cigars, and a very old, very battered journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The horrified screams in my reviews over the last week have given me life, I swear to god.
> 
> Thanks everyone for the reviews! And thanks to my beta for her wonderful work!
> 
> For anyone thinking 'oh how convenient that her gun jammed then', please see chapter 55 and then please see Rachel's actions towards Danse last chapter. ;)
> 
> I hated how in the game, once Blind Betrayal is over, Danse basically is totally okay with just killing Brotherhood members. Like, he's worked with them for well over a decade. Even if he wasn't immediate friends with them, he'd still feel something. I knew I was going to kill Rachel around the time she first mentions her daughter to Quinn. And that was also around the time I first got the idea about linking Sarah to Rachel. Before that, Sarah had literally been a throwaway character that I'd never intended to use again.
> 
> (which, incidentally, is also why I decided to go along with wiping the Railroad out. Doing the opposite would have removed two of my biggest plotpoints from the story)
> 
> I like how it all turned out. :D


	67. On Ederachillis' Shore

Danse paused, staring at Marguerie’s journal. He could feel MacCready’s eyes on him as he stood frozen on the spot, still holding her body.

After a few seconds, he let her go, though he didn't look away from the book. Marguerie had owned it for as long as he’d known her, but he’d only seen her with it on a few occasions. Each time he’d spotted her writing, Marguerie snapped it shut and put it away. Danse had never asked what she’d been writing about.

MacCready came walking back into the yard, pulling Danse from his train of thought. He’d been so wrapped up in the journal, he hadn’t noticed MacCready leaving in the first place. Or maybe his head was still causing issues. Despite the stimpak dealing with the concussion, there was a lingering dull ache in his skull.

Preston and Nick followed MacCready, all of them walking at a brisk pace, all of them carrying shovels. Nick was holding two.

None of them commented on Marguerie’s body, though an angry look flashed across Nick’s face. Still, he held his tongue, and instead passed Danse the spare shovel as he said, “This where we’re burying her?”

Danse blinked with surprise. It took him a moment to find his words, and when he did, all he could say was, “Yes.”

The three of them immediately began to dig, while Danse stood there stupidly. They were helping him without being asked, and without any personal ties to the deceased. Like real friends. Like Cutler. His gratitude was almost overwhelming.

Shaking himself free of his bewilderment, Danse limped over, the blade of his shovel trailing behind him with a metal skittering. He tried to speak again, before Preston looked up at him and smiled. They knew. He didn’t need to say it.

The hours passed, Danse becoming more of a hindrance with his leg the deeper the pit grew. Eventually, he stepped back and let the others finish in his place. When it was done, Preston checked over Danse’s wounds to make sure they hadn’t reopened, while MacCready and Nick lowered Marguerie gently into the grave. Then they picked up their shovels again.

“Leave it,” said Danse.

Preston, Nick, and MacCready looked at each other. Nick leaned on his shovel. “You sure, kid?”

“Yes.” Trying not to wince in front of them, Danse lowered himself to the ground next to the items that had fallen from Marguerie’s pocket. “I just need a minute. Want to...say some goodbyes.”

“Don’t exert yourself too hard,” Preston said. “I didn’t do all those stitches for you to bust them again.”

MacCready said nothing, staring at the open grave for a few seconds, before walking off with the shovel over his shoulder. The rest of them watched him go.

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Nick said, picking up his own shovel. “And listen to Preston. Don’t overdo it. If you need any help, give us a holler.”

Danse breathed a sigh of relief when they’d gone. They didn’t understand. He knew they didn’t understand. Why would they? All they saw was the Brotherhood trying to kill him. He didn’t blame them for that. Maybe MacCready was the only one who felt different, for whatever reason, but he’d barely known Marguerie. Not like him.

Danse leaned against the picket fence and stared down at the last of Marguerie’s possessions. Her treasured lighter, three cigars...and the journal. He reached out, but then stopped. He’d never so much as touched it before. Now he was trying to pick through like some sort of vulture.

Instead, Danse turned his attention to the cigars, an old, tired memory surfacing. He thought of the first time he’d left the Prydwen without Quinn, smoking a cigar with Marguerie on the decks. It had been uncomfortable on his lungs, making him cough, much to her amusement. He could hear her laughing now, loud and low, a halo of smoke lazily unfurling around her head.

Danse looked back at the pit.

Finally, it all hit him. He bent forward, his head in his knees, trying to control his breathing. He’d killed his friend. He’d killed his _friend._

He glanced up, glaring at the grave. “What the _hell_ were you thinking, Marguerie? Were you that _blinded?”_

A sharp pain flared through his leg, and he realised he was half to his feet. The wounded leg gave way, and he crashed forward onto his hands and knees with a grunt. Sweat dripped from him, his shoulders heaving with anger.

 _He’d_ been that blinded. For years and years, following Brotherhood doctrine without question. Ghouls are the enemy? Fine, of course. It never affected him. Even after Marguerie’s family, he hadn’t found the compassion to change—but neither had she, choosing to twist it into something that ate her from the inside out. Synths were next on the list, and Danse decried them without hesitation. Only when it involved him personally, only when his own life had been on the line, did his perception shift.

“At least you were consistent,” Danse said to the grave. He sat back on the floor, panting and clutching at his leg. “At least you stuck to what you believed in, no matter what.”

Marguerie stayed loyal at the cost of everything. Would it have ever got this far if not for the Brotherhood? Danse didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it. The knowledge his friend lived a miserable existence wouldn’t change, regardless whether it was her fault, the Brotherhood’s, or somewhere in-between.

“You should have gone with George,” Danse said, picking up her Zippo lighter and turning it over to look at the Brotherhood logo scratched in the metal. “You should have left us behind. You would have made it.” He set it down and cast his eyes back to the pit. “You would have been fine.”

The cigars lay at his feet.

_Marguerie was leaning on the railings of the Prydwen, looking back at him. “We’ve had each other’s backs when it mattered most. I think that warrants sharing a smoke together every now and then, don’t you?”_

Danse picked up a cigar, and after a slight pause, lit it. The unfamiliar sensation of hot ash filled his lungs, and he immediately spluttered. Marguerie’s laughter filled his head, and he grabbed one of the other cigars, pushing himself to the edge of her grave. Leaving his own cigar jutting out of his mouth, Danse lit the second, let it burn for a moment, and then dropped it down for Marguerie. It landed silently next to her stiffened body in the dirt, and slowly smouldered. Danse dragged himself back to the picket fence and leaned against it, working his way through the stolen cigar.

“I’m sorry I never helped you with Sarah,” he said aloud, smoke escaping his lips as he spoke. He looked at the grave. “I’m sorry I never asked how she was doing, or whether there was any way I could help. I know you told me you were fine, but...I should have pushed harder. I was too wrapped up in my position, too...too afraid to talk about what had happened to them. They were your dirty secret...or at least that’s how I saw it.”

Danse dragged on his cigar. “I think I met Sarah. Didn’t recognise her. Thought she’d stay six forever. Never imagined ghouls could grow. She seemed like a good kid. Brave...no, reckless really. She went after a pack of attacking super mutants with nothing but an armful of rocks.” He laughed. “I think you would have been proud of her.”

The air was heavy as he basked in the echo of that old encounter. Danse went to take another drag of his cigar, and stopped, the smoke halfway to his mouth. “If she’s really yours, I’ll find her, and I’ll look after her. Bring her back here, if that’s what she wants. Or build up The Slog if she decides to stay, so that she’s well defended. And tell her about you. All the good things, like...how dedicated you were to your cause. That you were fearless and hardworking, and you gave everything for her, no matter what stood in your way.”

He finished his cigar in silence, stubbing it out on the ground. “She’s not going to be alone, I promise.”

Slowly, Danse’s attention was drawn back to the journal. Tempting. Unguarded.

Danse glanced over to the grave, his stomach tight as he searched for a sign of permission. Her most precious possession. Normally he would never dare, but something inside was telling him to look. If anything, maybe it would give him some answers. Answers to what, though, he didn’t know.

Finally, he laid his hand on the worn brown leather cover, toying with the dirty string that kept it all held together. His fingers gripped at the string and gradually, painfully, pulled the journal towards him. He felt like he was committing the highest betrayal as he worked the binding loose and put it to one side. Still, he hesitated. He wanted to, but…

Danse opened the book on a random page, and was greeted with a startling sight. Lined across the yellowed pages was a beautiful cursive handwriting, looping gracefully from one letter to the next. His eyes fell to part of the last stanza.

_‘Thus every grave we dug,_

_The hungry wolf uptore.’_

Danse blinked. This wasn’t a poem that he recognised. It wasn’t something he’d thought Marguerie would ever write. Was it her own creation, or something she found? He flicked to the beginning, looking for an explanation, and found George Marguerie staring back.

It was the George Danse remembered from the Citadel, when he’d been living with Marguerie. Thin faced and pale, with a shock of jet-black hair, the image could have been a photograph. But it wasn’t. It had been carefully sketched, every line placed with aching precision. In George’s arms was a tiny baby, a pudgy hand reaching up to grasp at his collar.

Danse’s stomach tightened, his voice cracking as he said, “I never knew you were an artist, Rach.”

Artist was an insufficient word. He’d never seen such detailed illustrations. The love and care for each subject glowed from the pages—various drawings of a child, toddler to little girl. Her hair was long and black, tied in cute bunches with tattered ribbons. She had her mother’s nose and eyes. Her father’s face and build.

Danse reached to touch her face, but hesitated. He didn’t want to damage the drawing of Sarah Marguerie.

The next sets of pages were filled with sketches of the Capital Wasteland, mostly of a settlement, with Sarah and George often in the scene. This must have been Marguerie’s home before the Enclave burned it to the ground.

Suddenly, the sketches stopped. There were a few attempts, shaky and unfinished, the lines smudged heavily by long-dried drops of water. Then, the poem that Danse had first found when he’d opened the book. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where this had happened in Marguerie’s life.

After a few more tremulous starts, the drawings returned—stronger in style, almost angry. The lines were bolder, darker, the pictures stark and stylised. Gone were the drawings of home, replaced by endless angles of the Citadel, the building of the Prydwen, and various members of the old team. Danse saw himself, Cutler, and the Coopers immortalised in several scenes. One in particular made his whole body tense—a picture of Danse crouched over a large, misshapen body, his shoulders bowed with grief.

More scenery. Smeared outlines of Cutler, _‘sorry’_ scrawled repeatedly from margin to corner. A mutant, unfinished, its face relaxed, eyes blank and unseeing.

An intricate portrait broke the macabre trend—a little ghoul girl, her bubbly personality shining through the darkness like a beacon. Danse paused, closing his eyes. He knew this girl. He had met her in what felt like a lifetime ago. This, if nothing else, was the evidence to make him finally accept the truth: Sarah from The Slog _was_ Marguerie’s daughter.

Danse pushed on. He needed to see it all, to reach the end. Pictures of the Commonwealth followed, woven in with detailed sketches of the ship and sweeping views from the decks. And, to his greatest surprise, his face returned...with Quinn. The first was at the power armour station in the Prydwen’s workshop, Quinn sitting on a set of crates while he pointed at a nearby suit. Question marks surrounded the two of them, littering the page.

The next showed him bickering with Quinn. The word _‘Idiot’_ had been written over his head, _‘Idiot 2’_ over Quinn’s. Danse had to laugh.

He choked, mid-chuckle, as he turned the page. They were together again, asleep on the floor, holding hands. The scene was titled, _‘The Two Stupids.’_

Danse remembered Marguerie’s glee when she’d woke him up the following morning. She’d used this moment afterwards with great enthusiasm to try and convince him to tell Quinn how he felt. Had Marguerie been sketching them that night in the hospital?

There was one more picture of Danse. It was unfinished, and showed him smoking a cigar in the workshop where they built the actuators. The drawing had been scribbled over so fiercely there were holes in the paper. The word _‘SYNTH’_ was scrawled across in thick, black letters.

Danse sighed. He knew why she could never see him as a person. Danse even understood it. But that didn’t make it sting any less.

He went cold as he reached the next undamaged page. The sketch of him had been carefully reconstructed, drawn to intense detail, like the ones at the beginning of the book. Every line of concentration was visible, his serious expression suiting him as well as his uniform. Danse stared at it, his throat tight, until he couldn’t bear to look any more, and hurriedly moved on.

The following picture was slightly hard to see, because it had also been scribbled out violently. After a few seconds of squinting, though, Danse realised it was MacCready, fast asleep under his coat. He was without his hat, revealing ruffled hair, and his shoulders were bare. He was reaching out, loosely holding someone’s fingers. More squinting revealed the scene had been drawn to show MacCready holding the artist’s hand. Danse blinked, his cheeks going hot. Not that he’d ever kept up with Marguerie’s love life, but…

She’d be laughing at his discomfort now. Marguerie _loved_ embarrassing him. She would have thought the invasion of her privacy almost worth it just to see him squirm. At least this explained MacCready’s reaction to her death. He probably should have picked up on it, but with his head...

The opposite page made his heart sink. Another portrait of a man, the lines badly smudged. Danse thought he might be George, but he looked vastly different to the earlier versions. He guessed Marguerie hadn’t looked back for a reference. Or maybe she couldn’t bear to look back at all. Underneath, in small, shaky writing:

_‘I can’t remember his face.’_

Most of the remaining parts of the book were filled with incomplete, water-stained drawings - so erratic they were impossible to decipher. Then the sketches cleared, becoming controlled again as a final collection of memories surfaced. The Coopers were arm in arm, Viv’s fire captured perfectly, along with Stephen’s kind smile. Beside them, more tiny writing.

_‘Out out, brief candle.’_

Quinn, lying in a bed that Danse thought might be on the Prydwen. She looked ill, dark shadows under her eyes, her stomach and chest swathed in bandages.

The last drawing was raw.

Marguerie’s dark gaze burned. The journal disappeared in Danse’s hands as he stared into those eyes, jagged lines and fierce pen strokes betraying more misery than words ever could. Her face was hollow, savage, the neglect screaming through her brutal self portrait.

Monster.

After that, there was nothing.

Danse shut the book and let it lie in his lap. His head hurt, but this time it had nothing to do with the blow he’d received. Conflicting thoughts whirled around, nipping at his fingers every time he tried to catch them. He hoped the journal would give him some form of closure, but instead he’d been dragged through Marguerie’s destructive downward spiral.

Danse got to his feet, letting the book fall carelessly the ground. He knew he’d regret his disrespect later, but right now he was suffocating. The pain that tore through his leg was cleansing fire, ripping him back from the edge. He seized his shovel and thrust it into the pile of dirt, spilling it everywhere as he tossed it into the pit.

Marguerie was dead. Nothing could change that.

Danse grunted, cleaving into the earth as he drove the thoughts away. Push on. Do better. He’d been careless, leaving his weapon inside the truck stop. Quinn and Charlie could have died.

And Rachel…

Danse stopped, swaying on the spot before flinging the shovel away. It hit something with a clang, but he paid it no attention, staring down at the contorted figure in the grave. The earth contrasted against her chalky skin, scattered across her closed eyes. He watched, waiting for her to blink, to move, to do _something._

She lay still.

“God damn it,” Danse hissed, turning away from her. Where the hell was his shovel?

He found it wedged into the panelling of the house, the blade bent out of shape. When he tried to pull it free, the handle snapped off, leaving the metal stuck in the building. Danse swore and dropped it to the ground. The others had left with their shovels, and he didn’t want to face them again tonight. Not until this was done.

Muttering to himself, Danse limped back over and fell to his knees, earning himself a fresh wave of agony. He took in a few deep breaths, and then dug his hands into the piled dirt. Danse clawed his way through, first shovelling handfuls, and then armfuls of soil down onto Marguerie.

Sweat poured off him as he worked, his muscles aching, his leg _screaming._ Danse ignored his body, toiling away, aiming for the next load, and the next load, and the next. He needed to bury her. Bury Rachel. Bury his sins.

Hours passed, and as he reached the hard ground, his fingers scrabbled at every loose piece of dirt he could reach, desperate to return it to the pit. The mound grew, and Danse patted and leaned on it, packing it into place.

Finally, it was done, and he fell on the grave, drained. His body spurned him for his negligence, rejecting every command he gave to move. So Danse lay there, head spinning as he stared out into nothing.

“Do you ever listen to anything we tell you?”

Nick’s voice grated against him, but he didn’t have the energy to voice his contempt. Not at the old detective’s presence, but that anyone would see him in such a state.

Two sets of hands took hold of him, sitting him up, and Danse found himself looking at Nick and Preston. They tried to move him, but he resisted, gesturing to Marguerie's possessions.

Finally, Preston took the hint and picked them up. Once he was sure the items were secure, Danse let them pull him to his feet and guide him back to his house.

The going was slow. Burying Marguerie hadn’t helped matters and now his leg could barely support him. Quinn was nowhere in sight, but he could see Hancock standing under a porch, smoking with MacCready. He clapped MacCready on the shoulder as he flicked his cigarette away, sloping off towards Weathers’ brahmin, where the caravan guards were skulking.

As Danse drew near, he saw Hancock press a bag into one of the guard's hands. The guard lost his grip slightly and a few caps fell out. The other guard picked the caps up and pocketed them. Hancock smirked, lit up another cigarette, and walked away, giving Danse a wink as he passed.

_What the hell was that all about?_

Thinking made his head hurt, so Danse decided to forget about it for the time being.

Preston's reprimand washed over him as they made it into the house—something about not taking care of his new stitches. Danse mumbled the appropriate response and they deposited him onto the sofa. Preston tutted at the state of Danse’s bandages, which were now riddled with dirt, and left the house. He returned a few minutes later, hands clean and holding fresh bandages.

“Nothing seems to be out of place, at least,” Preston said, when he’d finished redressing Danse’s injuries. He raised an eyebrow at Danse. “Just try not to mess these ones up. We’re not made of bandages and we’re going to need them for your leg until it heals.”

Danse nodded slowly. “You've gotten better at first aid.”

Preston pinked a little, trying to hide his pleased expression. “Um...thanks.”

The room fell silent. Preston took out Marguerie's things and laid them on the sofa next to Danse. “Here.”

Danse couldn't bring himself to look at them again, let alone utter a thank you. After a few minutes, Nick and Preston took their leave, but not before Nick threw a parting shot of, _“Don't do anything to worsen your leg.”_

Once again, he was left alone, but not for long. Before he could wallow, he heard light footsteps and a familiar frantic voice mixed in with loud barking.

“Master Sh—I mean—Master Charlie, your mother said—”

“I want to see Mr. Danse!”

Charlie burst into the house, comics spilling from his arms. Dogmeat and Codsworth followed closely behind. Danse winced as Dogmeat bounded around the room, still barking, and then ran circles around Codsworth.

Charlie, however, took one look at Danse and dropped all his comics as he burst into tears.

The ache in his head suddenly seemed insignificant. Danse sat up straight and held his arms out to Charlie. Dogmeat took this as his cue and launched himself into Danse’s lap. White hot pain exploded through his leg.

“God _damn—”_

 Danse’s yell was immediately cut short by the dog excitedly licking his face. He managed to bite back any more curses, shoving Dogmeat away and clutching at his thigh. Then he felt small, warm hands on his arm, and turned to see Charlie standing next to him. Charlie didn't move any closer, chewing nervously on his lip. Danse patted on his good leg, and Charlie gingerly climbed onto Danse knee, trying not to look at his face.

“Are you going to die?” Charlie whispered.

“No. Preston patched me up pretty good.”

Charlie nodded, but didn't look convinced. Danse decided to change the subject. “What comics do you have there?”

“Mr. MacCready gave me them.” Charlie shifted, but didn't move. Danse threw Codsworth a pointed look and he took the hint, scooping up the comics with his clawed hand and depositing them in Danse's lap. Dogmeat padded over and lay down at his feet.

“Let's see then,” Danse said, selecting one at random. “Read this one?” When Charlie shook his head, Danse smiled and opened it. “The Silver Shroud’s most daring venture yet: _The Case of the Boston Blue Lights…”_

* * *

“I've done everything I can,” Doc Weathers said, setting down his equipment and dabbing at his forehead with a scrap of cloth. “Now it's just a case of waiting.”

Quinn didn't reply, staring down at Carson. His breathing was steady, which was an improvement from before, and some of his colour had returned. But he still hadn't woken. Not surprising, really, with the amount of med-x in his system, and yet Quinn worried. The knowledge Cade bestowed to her during her confinement on the Prydwen allowed Quinn to assist Doc Weathers with Carson, but it was little help now. All she could do was hope.

Carson had to live. Quinn needed to know who else was involved. And, if she was really honest with herself, she simply didn't want him to die. Had Deacon felt this way before he shot her?

_Probably not. You didn't turn against your own side to save him._

“Hey, kid.” Nick was standing behind her. He smiled. “I'll keep an eye on him tonight. Go get some sleep.”

She went to argue that he had to get some shuteye as well, before remembering Nick didn't need to. “Alright.”

If Nick was surprised by her lack of arguing, he didn’t show it. He patted her gently on the shoulder as she passed, and when Quinn looked back, he’d settled into the chair next to Sturges’ bed, where Carson lay motionless. Sturges would have to find another place to stay for the time being, but if his date with Preston went well the previous night, that wouldn’t be much of an issue.

The air was cool and balmy as Quinn stepped out onto the street, a soothing contrast from the enclosed heat of Sturges’ house. She took a deep breath through her nose, savouring the smell of _outside._ Different than pre-war—trees and cut grass and the faintest scent of car exhaust—this world smelled plainer. Bare, but with a tinge of metal and damp earth.

In the distance, Doc Weathers was packing up his brahmin again, and Quinn found herself not caring if he left. He’d done the majority of the work on Carson. Now all that was required was monitoring him.

Quinn noticed Weathers’ guards glaring at the doctor, blatantly not helping. They were wearing a look similar to Hancock, when he’d learned who Weathers used to work for. Quinn had sat with him during her second brief reprieve in Carson’s treatment, after Weathers flapped his hands at her and told her to leave him in peace for a while. The first had been during a particularly gruesome part of the procedure, where she excused herself before she could throw up.

Quinn had debated not spilling Weathers’ secret briefly, before remembering that such a man could—and likely would—fall in line with similar organisations again. Better to be prepared. Better for Hancock to know. And so she’d told him.

Hancock hadn’t said much, merely shrugging and digging through his pockets for his chem of choice. Not the reaction Quinn expected, but good enough. He wasn’t disrupting Carson’s recovery, at least.

She saw Hancock as she walked back up towards her house. He looked surprisingly more cheerful than earlier, and gave her a little wave.

“Tin can’s holed up in his place with Charlie.” Hancock offered her some mentats, and rolled his eyes when she declined. “You need to loosen up. You look like shit.”

“I’ll manage,” Quinn replied, and then—because she wanted to say it out loud to _someone_ —added, “We’ve finished with Carson for the night. With any luck, he’ll pull through.”

“I’ll take care of it when you’ve asked all your questions.”

“I’m _not_ killing him.”

“Oh?” Hancock raised his non-existent eyebrows at her. “And what you gonna do if it turns out he was here to murder you all along? Let him skip on back to the Brotherhood so he can tell them Danse is still alive?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“Uh-huh.” Hancock popped a few mentats in his mouth. “Well, let me know how _that_ goes. I’ll be here to dispose of the trash when you’re ready.”

Quinn couldn’t think of a good response, so she marched away, trying to ignore the squirming sensation in her stomach. Sure, Carson had stepped in at the last second, but what was she going to do if there was a chance he’d sell out Danse?

“Fuck,” she hissed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Why am I always stuck in these _shit situations?”_

“Welcome home, mum!”

Quinn looked up, to see Codsworth at the door, a mug in his hand.

“I took the liberty of preparing you a hot beverage, just the way you liked it in the old days!” He paused. “Granted, the quality has deteriorated over the centuries, but I can assure you that you won’t find finer coffee anywhere else, mum!”

She laughed and accepted the cup, wrapping her hands around it so she could feel its comfortable warmth. When she stepped inside, Danse and Charlie looked up from their spot on the sofa. Danse looked haggard, but the haunted echo in his eyes slipped away as they met hers, and he smiled.

“Hi, mom!” Charlie said, snug in Danse’s lap, though still careful not to lean on his bad leg. “I’ve been showing Mr. Danse my comics. He didn’t even know who the Silver Shroud was!”

Comics were everywhere, but Quinn didn’t mind the mess. She made her way across the room in silence, stepping over the snoring Dogmeat, who was lying flat on his back in the middle of the floor, and sat down in a nearby armchair. Her body ached from today’s fight, and yet it suddenly seemed so far away in the sanctity of Danse’s house.

“Do you want me to take over for a bit?” she said.

Danse looked exhausted, but he shook his head. “You’re still teaching me about the Silver Shroud, right, Charlie?”

Charlie grinned. “You remembered his name!”

 _“Barely,”_ Danse mouthed to Quinn, and she snorted into her coffee, just as she was about to take a sip. Dogmeat stirred, twitched his head in her direction, and then half rolled, half dragged himself over to Quinn’s feet, curling up against her.

She cradled her drink in her hands and listened to Danse read to Charlie, letting the evening drift by. Eventually, her coffee was cold and Charlie was asleep. Danse didn’t move, but let the comic book slide to the floor as he stared up at the ceiling.

“I buried her,” he said after a minute of silence.

Quinn nodded, setting her cup down on a small table next to her, without looking away from Danse. She’d seen MacCready, Nick, and Preston digging earlier, the first time she’d left Weathers’ makeshift operating room. “How do you feel?”

“Better. And worse.” He indicated to a small journal on the sofa, half buried under comics. “I...found her journal.”

Quinn blinked, suddenly remembering its existence. “Did you read it?” She couldn’t keep the accusatory note out of her tone. Danse flushed in response, answering her question. She paused, and then smiled. “I think...if anyone had the right to read it—”

“No one had the right to read it,” Danse snapped.

Charlie mumbled in his sleep and wriggled in Danse’s lap. Both adults watched him for a second, before continuing the conversation in considerably lowered voices.

“Your guilt is doing the talking for you.” Quinn folded her arms. “Even after everything that happened, I don’t think she’d mind—”

“She was a very unhappy, very isolated woman,” Danse interrupted, staring at the floor with a scowl. “She never spoke about the things that were tearing her apart, never let anyone help her. Never...left the Brotherhood behind to take a chance with her family.” His expression softened. “But I _have_ let people help me. I _have_ the family and the friends she couldn’t bring herself to keep. And I know I could lose it all in an instant.” He glanced at Charlie, then back at Quinn. “So I should cherish it now, while it lasts.”

“I don’t think she’d mind,” Quinn repeated. She got to her feet and joined him on the sofa, snuggling up to his other side.

“Maybe.” Danse kissed her on the head. “Who’s keeping an eye out for…?”

“Nick’s watching Carson, and the night patrol is taking care of everything else. Rose Crowcroft is in charge of that, and if Preston says she’s good, then I’ll trust his word. He also put out a radio signal for a few extra Minutemen to join us from the Castle. Risky, but I don’t think the Brotherhood are monitoring that signal...and if they are…” Quinn shrugged. “Not much we can do about it.”

“I don’t believe the Brotherhood is aware I’m alive.”

Quinn looked at him. “You don’t?”

Danse shook his head and then winced. “No. If they were, they wouldn’t have sent two lone soldiers to scout the situation out. You heard Carson—‘here to check on you, not murder people.’ They don’t send soldiers blind into a situation, especially if there are only two of them. And they certainly don’t send friends, either. Or...they’re not supposed to.”

He paused, wearing a dark expression. Quinn knew he was thinking of Maxson, and how he’d sent her to execute Danse.

“And even if they _did_ send friends,” Danse continued, “then they wouldn’t send Carson without telling him exactly what they were in for. Too much chance for things to go wrong—emotions running high. They might let the target go, or even turn on their comrades. As we saw today.”

Quinn felt dizzy with hope. “So do you think Carson was in on it?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he’s just a very good actor and wanted to save his own skin, but...my gut instinct says no. No other explanation makes sense. Marguerie had the upper hand, and he attacked her anyway.” Danse turned to her. “What are you going to do with him if he finds my existence abhorrent?”

Quinn didn’t reply, and after a few seconds, he gave her a small squeeze.

* * *

Danse wasn’t sure exactly when he drifted off to sleep, but he suddenly found himself being woken by a loud knock at the door. He snapped to attention, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there, while Quinn wriggled free and stood up. Charlie gripped tight onto Danse’s ruined shirt as the two of them squinted at the person silhouetted by sunlight streaming through the open door.

“Hey,” came Hancock’s voice. “That Brotherhood prick is awake and willing to talk. Thought you should know.”

 _Willing._ Danse wondered whether ‘willing’ was a state coerced out of Carson with the help of Hancock’s knife.

“Thanks.” Quinn walked over to Charlie and crouched down. “I want you to stay with Codsworth, okay? Do everything he says.” She placed a kissed on Charlie’s head, got back to her feet, and then strode from the room without a backwards glance.

Danse didn’t mind. Carson being awake didn’t mean he was going to live. Right now, urgency was everything. Still, he appreciated that Hancock hadn’t followed her, waiting patiently for him instead.

“I’m going to help your mother,” Danse said, ruffling Charlie’s hair. He took the cue and carefully slid off Danse’s lap, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Can I look through your toolbox?”

“You can look, but you can’t touch. I don’t want you messing with guns unsupervised.”

Charlie pouted. “Fine.”

Danse tried to stand, but his leg was stiff and uncooperative, the pain somehow worse for the rest it had been granted. After a few futile attempts, Hancock’s hand appeared in front of his face.

He grinned. “Come on, tin can.”

Danse grinned back, accepting his hand. Hancock was no Nick, though, and it took a good deal of effort to get Danse to his feet.

“Fuck,” Hancock wheezed, before lighting a cigarette.

“Yes, that’ll help,” Danse said, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, I can push you back onto that sofa just as quick as I got you off it.” Hancock paused. “Well, okay, a _lot_ quicker.”

Danse chuckled, and Hancock smirked, jamming his cigarette between his teeth and letting Danse put some of his weight on him as they left the house. Danse tried not to cough as the smoke wafted into his face, making his eyes sting and his nose twitch. At once, Marguerie’s face flashed through his mind, and he felt nausea grip at his stomach. It took everything he had not to look into Quinn’s yard as they passed, the newest mound of earth in the corner of his vision.

When they cleared the growing graveyard, Danse let out a great, whooshing breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His leg trembled, and Hancock glanced up at him, alarmed.

“If you’re gonna go, a warning would be nice,” he rasped, the cigarette bobbing up and down as he spoke. “This is all for show, tin can. One stumble and you’ll flatten me.”

“Good to know,” Danse said, his own words also forced between clenched teeth. _Don’t think of her. Think of Quinn and Carson. Think of what needs to be done._

Odd that things were quiet, though. Normally Quinn would make such a heated conversation clearly heard all across the settlement. Maybe, in the face of such horrific events, she was holding back until—

_“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”_

Ah.

Quinn’s yell ripped through the morning silence, making other residents stop in their tracks and turn to stare at Sturges’ house. Two seconds later, Nick Valentine sidled outside, cigarette pack in hand, apparently deciding now was the perfect time for a smoke.

Danse let out a long, heavy sigh, carefully making his way through the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my amazing beta! And thank you for all the lovely reviews!
> 
> I wanted to give Rachel a good send off. I also wanted to show the vulnerable, hurting side of her that she wouldn't openly let anyone see. This has probably been one of my favourite chapters to write so far.


	68. Remnants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the long absence. Basically, my hand pains came back and I decided not to push myself this time and let them recover instead. I've been slowly writing and taking it easy.
> 
> Thanks to waiting4morning as usual for her betaing!
> 
> There a nice bit of drama at the end of this story. I had a rather rude reviewer, and honestly? I've been writing this story for a year and a half. Sometimes it just feels good to be pissy back to people.
> 
> The rude review is still here:
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/r/11649684/
> 
> I have no intention of deleting it. Their rudeness only fuels my desire to carry on writing without their much sought after permission.
> 
> ...*SNORT*

“You tried to kill me. The least you can do is look me in the _fucking eye, Liam.”_

Danse had only heard Quinn’s voice this sharp a handful of times—one of which was when he’d told her she was being an irresponsible parent. Quinn damn near bit his head off in response.

Danse leaned against the wall, trying to force his leg to support him. It was trembling badly, the pain a constant drone tearing through his limb. He gritted his teeth and ignored it, watching as Carson winced at Quinn’s tone.

Carson looked terrible: worse than yesterday, if that was even possible. Barely alive. His skin was still ashen and coated in a thin sheen of sweat, the dark circles under his eyes deeper and more pronounced. His body was covered in bandages, but they were tinged with patches of unpleasant yellow stains, mixed with traces of lilac. Looked like Weathers knew how to make the hydra concoction for laser burns.

Carson shivered, but after a pause met Quinn’s molten gaze and said, “Is she dead?”

No one had to ask who he meant.

“Yes,” Danse replied when Quinn stayed silent.

“Fuck.” Carson tried to raise his hands, but then made a noise of pain and let them drop back onto the bed. Instead, his fingers gripped tightly at the sheets as he whispered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Quinn’s scowl softened with confusion. “You attacked her. Took away her advantage. What the hell did you expect?”

“I know, but…” Carson let out a shuddering breath. _“Fuck.”_

The anger drained from Quinn's face. She grabbed a chair and sat down next to him. “Tell me what happened. How did you both end up here?”

“I...um…” Carson blinked rapidly, looking dazed. “I...where do you want me to start?”

“Is anyone else involved?” Danse said, gripping at the door frame as his leg gave another violent tremor. Quinn finally noticed, and she got to her feet and found another chair, helping Danse into it.

Carson waited until Quinn returned to her own seat before speaking. He weakly shook his head. “No. Just me and Rachel. We...we wanted to make sure you were okay. Or...I thought that's what we were…” He broke off, his voice thick. When he continued, he sounded strained. “Rachel said you were missing. You and Shaun—”

Danse resisted the urge to correct Charlie's name.

“—and your armour was gone too. Rach said she was worried, that it wasn't like you to leave without telling us. And...I agreed. But we decided to wait to see if you came back. You didn't.”

Danse saw Quinn's face visibly pale, and felt her pain. They'd discussed the possibility of a search party, but with everything going on…

“She asked if there was anywhere you might go, and I said...I said…” Carson closed his eyes. “I said Tom and I brought you here for your husband’s funeral. That you had a house and everything.”

“You didn't mention Nick, did you?” Quinn asked quickly.

“No.” Carson’s eyes snapped open again. “You told me not to!”

“And it didn't occur to you that Rachel might run into Nick and attack him?”

Carson went red. “No, I...it sounds stupid, but I didn't really think of that.”

“You're right. It does sound stupid.”

He went even redder. “I had other shit on my mind!” Carson erupted, trying to sit up without thinking. A horrible shriek left his lips and he fell back onto the bed, face twisted in agony. Quinn watched him, balling her hands so tightly her knuckles went white.

“You left,” Carson hissed, forcing his words out between his teeth. “You disappeared with your kid, and I was scared you’d finally lost it. You hadn't been the same since the Institute! I just wanted to make sure you were _safe!”_

He screwed his eyes shut and fell silent, trembling where he lay. Quinn bit her lip and after a pause reached for the med-x Weathers had left in a pile on the nightstand.

Carson’s eyes snapped open as she moved, and he scowled. “No. I can't answer your questions if I'm high.”

“Carson—”

_“Leave it.”_

Quinn's fingers tightened around the med-x, but then she nodded and set it back down.

It still took Carson a few minutes to settle before he could speak again. His breath came out in pants, sweat running freely down his face. Quinn stood up, taking off her jacket and using the clean sleeve to mop his brow.

“Thanks,” Carson whispered, staring up at the ceiling. He swallowed, taking deep, gasping breaths through his mouth, and then went on. “So we walked to Sanctuary. I don’t think Rach slept the entire way. I asked her why we weren’t riding a vertibird, and she said in case we found you on the road. I took my armour...she went without. As usual.”

“Your armour?” Quinn frowned. “If you have your armour, why weren’t you wearing it?”

“Rach’s orders,” Carson replied. “We found a cave just behind the truck stop you were in yesterday. We’ve...we only arrived two days ago.”

“Two days ago?” Quinn asked.

Carson nodded. “Early evening. Rach told me to stay in the cave while she scouted ahead. She used a stealth boy and disappeared for a few hours. She came back before it got dark.” He swallowed, his brow creasing with distress. “She...something was wrong. Something had _changed._ Said she’d overheard you talking with a guy called Robert, but wouldn’t say what she’d found out. Except…” Carson bit his lip. “That her suspicions had been confirmed. Rach didn’t elaborate much past that.”

Quinn and Danse looked at each other.

Carson closed his eyes and continued talking, faster than before, as if he wanted the tale over with. “I woke up just before daybreak and found her wide awake, checking over her stealth boys. She’d obviously been awake all night. Like...like she was preparing for battle or something. She kept running her hand through her hair, getting to her feet, pacing...when I asked her what was wrong, she…she…”

Carson took a deep, shuddering breath. “She said she thought you might be a traitor. That something wasn’t adding up. She’d been thinking and thinking since she’d got back to the cave, and...and we needed to investigate further. She told me to leave my armour behind and use a stealth boy. But just as we walked past the truck stop to go to Sanctuary, you and Paladin Danse came out.”

“Did she already know I was alive?” Danse asked, leaning forward in his chair. He couldn’t imagine Marguerie would have the restraint to hold herself back until the next day. It just wasn’t her. It made much more sense if she thought Charlie was the only synth in Sanctuary. Anything else would have been a bloodbath.

“I don’t think so, sir” Carson murmured. “Because...when she saw you, I...well. She just... _stopped.”_ He finally opened his eyes again and turned them to Quinn. “She stopped so suddenly I walked into her. And then...I saw her shimmer go straight for Paladin Danse.”

“And you didn’t know that was going to happen?” Danse asked, staring at Carson. Carson shook his head. “Then why did you stand there, pointing a gun at us, while Marguerie threatened _to kill everyone in the goddamn settlement?”_

Danse only became aware that he’d risen to his feet when the pain overwhelmed his shaking leg. It buckled, and Danse crashed forward, managing to catch himself on a conveniently positioned dresser. Quinn was at his side in an instant, helping him back into the chair and kissing his cheek.

“Well?” she snapped, shooting a vicious glare at Carson.

Carson bit his lip, looking close to tears. “I...I froze. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. I didn’t know what was happening. It was all just too much. Paladin Danse was alive, and I didn’t know if that meant you were both traitors, or…” His voice shook, and he stopped, breathing heavy. When he continued, the tremor was still there, his pitch a little higher. “Then Rach started talking about killing kids, and I just...I knew I had to stop her.”

“Stop her?” Quinn spat, looming over him. “She pulled the fucking trigger! If that gun hadn’t been broken, we’d both be dead!”

“And if the gun hadn’t been broken and I’d acted, we’d probably all be dead anyway!” Carson hissed back, anger lighting his face up. “I couldn’t just throw myself at her! She had a gun to Paladin Danse’s _head!_ By the time I got there, she’d have shot him and probably shot you too! I figured if I waited for an opening, then at least one of you would have a chance of…”

His voice faltered again.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, turning his eyes back to the ceiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. I’m sorry I just... _stood there._ I’m sorry she’s dead, too.” Finally, slow, sorrowful tears slid down his cheeks. With what looked like a great effort, he lifted his arm, gasping with pain, and pulled his holotags over his head.

Danse stared at them, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Carson’s tags were caked in dried blood and burnt skin, and looked as if they’d been ripped away from his scorched flesh. But all they made him think of was Marguerie’s holotags. He had left them on her body.

His heart began to race. The tags were supposed to go to the next of kin. To _Sarah._ How could he have been so stupid?

Danse tried to calm himself, taking slow, deep breaths until Quinn glanced at him with a concerned look. He gave a short nod to show he was fine, and forced his attention back to Carson. Think about Marguerie later. There were more important matters at hand.

Carson was trembling badly now, and wearing an expression as if he was going to throw up. Finally, he got the tags loose and held them out to Quinn. “Don’t tell Tom what happened to me. Just...tell him it was mutants and that it was quick.”

Quinn’s eyes widened. “What…? Do you need a doctor?”

Carson blinked, suddenly confused. “I’m not an idiot, Quinn. I know what you’re going to do.” He raised his arm higher, the agony clear in his face. “Tom will need closure.”

Quinn and Danse looked at each other again, and in that moment, they both came to the same, unspoken conclusion. Carson was telling the truth.

Quinn leaned forward, took the tags from Carson’s hand, and set them on the nightstand. Then she picked up the med-x syringe and put it between her teeth as she mopped his brow again.

“You can tell him yourself,” she said, when she’d returned the med-x to her hands and pulled off the cap.

Carson frowned. “What?”

“Get some sleep,” Quinn replied, injecting him with the chem. “We’ll talk more later.”

* * *

Danse seemed in a strange mood when they left the house, Nick resuming his watch over Carson. Quinn placed a hand on Danse’s shoulder, but he shrugged her off, shaking his head. She didn’t push it. The last twenty-four hours had been trying for both of them, and if he needed some space…

Her suspicions were confirmed as she watched him limp towards the new graveyard. Talking with Carson must have added salt to the wound. She wasn’t feeling much better herself.

Quinn turned in the opposite direction and walked off down the street, deciding to speak with Rose Crowcroft before Rose went in for some sleep. Quinn believed Carson—she really did—but if he and Rachel had left without saying they were looking for her, then Maxson might still send out a patrol of his own. Better to stay alert for the time being.

A lone figure was hunched at the barricade on the edge of town, perched in the guard’s seat. Quinn glanced around for Crowcroft, wondering which unlucky settler drew the short straw for early watch on such a cold morning, before remembering the shift change wasn’t for another hour. She stared hard at the watchman and then blinked. It was MacCready.

No, it couldn’t be MacCready. He’d been helping with the chaos yesterday, well into the evening. Quinn had stepped out of the operating room for a much needed break, and when she’d walked back, saw him digging with Danse, Nick, and Preston. The open grave had been stark against a backdrop of rotting picket fences and dead trees. To be here now would mean...

“Mac?” Quinn said, hoping it was someone else.

MacCready looked up, his empty eyes boring into hers. His usual smile failed to appear. “Hey.”

She strode over to him. “Have you been here all night?”

He didn’t answer, but checked over his weapon and directed his attention back to the wastes. When Quinn stayed where she was, he exhaled slowly through his nose and nodded.

“Why?”

“Keeping an eye on things.” His grip tightened on his gun. “And...thinking.”

Quinn bit her lip. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure there was no one in earshot, and then said, “About Rachel?”

“No,” MacCready replied sharply, his cheeks abruptly flushing with colour, though he continued to stare ahead. “Why would I be thinking about _her?_ We only...a one time thing. Nothing to it. Just another...” His words seemed to catch in his throat, and he suddenly tugged his hat down, shielding his eyes.

“Mac,” Quinn said again, crouching next to him as she laid a hand on his back. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” MacCready replied, his voice muffled by the hand now covering his face. He lowered it and shot her a sharp look. “Shi—I mean...bad stuff happens.”

Quinn stood up and sat on the edge of the barricade, taking care to avoid the rusted barbed wire woven into the structure. She wondered where to take the conversation, when MacCready shivered, and she finally realised he was missing something.

“Where’s your coat?” Quinn asked.

MacCready waved his hand lazily towards the ground, and Quinn saw his coat in a heap at his feet. She squinted at it and realised there were smears of blood on the brown leather. She decided not to ask who the blood belonged to. Instead, Quinn stared hard at MacCready, and after a few seconds, his mask crumbled away. He seemed to deflate, suddenly looking tired.

“I’ve been thinking of Lucy,” he said, picking at a hole in the cuff of his sleeve. “All night...just her.”

Quinn blinked. She hadn’t expected _that_ answer.

Apparently, neither had MacCready. He looked surprised at himself, then shrugged. “I know it sounds weird. I know I should probably be thinking about Rach, given that…” He swallowed. “I can’t get Lucy’s last moments out of my head. Her screams. Duncan crying.”

MacCready’s eyes were glassy and faraway. “I couldn’t even bury her. Just took Duncan and ran. He...he cried so much after that. I didn’t know how to make him stop. Lucy was the one who could calm him down.” MacCready pulled his hat down low again, cradling his gun in his arms. “I’ve only ever been good at killing people.”

Quinn didn’t speak. What could she say? She waited patiently while MacCready sniffed and rubbed at his face, his eyes shielded by the brim of his hat. When he looked up again, they were red and slightly damp.

“Sometimes I wonder if I really left home to save Duncan’s life,” MacCready said, his voice flat. “I’m a terrible father. A liar. A _Gunner—”_

_“Ex_ -Gunner,” Quinn interrupted, scowling. She wasn’t going to let him forget such an important distinction. _“Ex-_ Gunner.”

MacCready hesitated and then nodded. “Ex-Gunner,” he repeated. “Doesn’t change the fact I’m still here. I found the cure...but I haven’t gone back” He shifted in his seat, face contorted with disgust. “I thought about it all last night. I figured it out. I’m just like Rach. Afraid of raising my own kid. Afraid of...of _fucking it up.”_

Regret crossed MacCready’s face in an instant. He slowly closed his eyes, as if inflicted with great pain, and bowed over his lap.

It took Quinn a moment to recover from MacCready swearing, but she felt commenting on it would only make him worse. She quickly fished for a subject. “Who told you Rachel’s daughter was still alive?”

“She did.”

Quinn’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

MacCready nodded as he straightened up. “When we got rid of the Gunners and we were celebrating. She can’t…” He frowned. “She couldn’t handle her drink. Let slip that Sarah was a ghoul instead. Well, I say let slip—” His face suddenly went beetroot. “After we...y’know...well.” MacCready coughed. “We were lying there, and from nowhere she starts talking about her daughter. How much she missed her.”

“What did you do?”

“I asked what happened, and I just...I dunno. Listened.”

Quinn was impressed. “You’re doing better than some of my exes.” She stretched her arms and then narrowed her eyes. “You said Rachel told you her family was dead.” She couldn’t keep the accusing note out of her tone. It stung that he’d lied to her.

MacCready shrugged, though he had the decency to look sheepish. “I...I didn’t want to share. It felt like something between me and Rach. Private, y’know? Even if she was gone the next morning.”

Quinn felt her face soften. “You really liked her, didn’t you?”

MacCready shrugged again, but the pain was clear in the premature lines etched into his face.

“You’re allowed to hurt, Mac,” she said in a low voice.

Weariness swept over his expression. “About who, though? Lucy keeps…” His sentence trailed away, and when he spoke again, there was a tremor that hadn’t been present before. “I don’t even know who I buried yesterday. I mean, I _know_ it was Rach, but as I was digging, I kept going back to the metro station. And how I left Lucy behind.”

Quinn crouched down and hugged him. MacCready didn’t hesitate, gripping tight at her as he shook.

“You put your son first,” she said quietly into his ear. “Whatever happened, Lucy would have wanted Duncan to live.”

“I shouted at him,” MacCready mumbled, clutching so hard at Quinn it was starting to hurt. “After we got away, he wouldn’t stop crying and I shouted at him. Swore at him. He was only a baby and I…”

“You think I haven’t shouted at Charlie over stupid things?” she replied, remembering the string of incidents since the Institute with a horrible, guilty feeling in her stomach. “Being a parent is _hard._ Especially when you’re on your own. And even more when you’re grieving. But it sounds like you learned from it.”

“Yeah.” MacCready sniffed, leaning heavily into her shoulder. “Promised I’d be a better person. I’m...trying.”

The two of them were silent for a moment, still hugging. An idea suddenly jumped into Quinn’s mind, and without a second thought, she blurted it out. “Bring Duncan here.”

MacCready pulled away from her at once. “What?”

Quinn paused, considering what she’d just said. Why the hell not? She smiled. “When things have settled down with the Brotherhood—and if you _want_ to—bring Duncan here.” She gestured to the barren settlement. “I’ve been thinking it over. I’m gonna fortify this place. Build trade routes to the other Minutemen settlements. _Expand._ Make this a home for everyone. The Minutemen will help.”

MacCready stared at her.

“It’ll take a while, and it’ll be hard work,” Quinn said quickly, not wanting to sell the wrong impression to him, “but I think the end result will be worth it. And if you bring Duncan, then you’ll have people who can help you if you’re worried.” Her insides churned as MacCready continued to gaze blankly at her. “I think Charlie would like the company, at any rate.”

MacCready turned his head from side to side, surveying the desolate town. Residents were starting to emerge from their houses, collecting water in buckets to take to the crops, or dragging materials into piles to use for the settlement repairs.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, “I’ve never had friends like this.”

Quinn frowned. “People who would look after your son?”

“No. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to leave Duncan behind.” MacCready met her eye, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Friends who would knuckle down to build a place that _lasts._ Friends who watch either other’s backs, not because they’re paid, but...because of the principle. Everyone helped you and Danse yesterday without being asked.”

Quinn smiled back. “So, is that a yes?”

MacCready didn’t reply, and after a while she patted him on the shoulder. “Get some sleep. The shift is changing in a few minutes.”

He stood up, stretching out his body with a groan, and picked up his coat off the ground. His eyes flicked to the blood stains, and he paled, before quickly looking away. Then he turned to Quinn, pulling something out of his trouser pocket. “Before I forget…”

Quinn saw a set of holotags in his palm, gleaming in the low morning light. She picked them up and inspected the name. They were Rachel’s.

“I don’t know why I took them,” MacCready said, staring at his feet. “No one else seemed to think of it, and they were just poking out of her uniform when I put her in the grave, so I…” He was starting to go red. “I don’t want them. But Danse will. Or Sarah. Or heck, maybe the Brotherhood can recycle them. But they shouldn’t be with me.”

Quinn closed her finger around tags, the metal warm to the touch. “Thank you.”

* * *

Danse’s leg throbbed as he stood over Marguerie's grave. Sluggish thoughts oozed through his head, malice prickling inside his skull. He had sworn an oath to fight by his brothers and sisters, not murder them. Even as an exile, those heavy words clung to him like spider webs in a tomb.

Danse’s throat tightened, remembering the feel of Cutler’s thick fingers digging deep into his neck, and drew in a shuddering breath. Marguerie’s face flashed across his vision—not a mutant, out of control, but completely and utterly human.

_You had to do it,_ he reminded himself, trying to push back the clawing desperation in his stomach. _You had no choice. She would have killed Quinn and Charlie._

Anger crashed over him as he stared at the miserable mound of earth holding Marguerie's body. Once upon a time, Danse might have said she had just been ‘doing her duty.’ He scowled. ‘Doing her duty’ for an organisation that would never allow her marriage to George Marguerie, had Elder Lyons not rebelled. The codex plainly stated outsiders to the Brotherhood were not a priority, and mingling with them, actively discouraged.

The tenants of the Brotherhood echoed on. A new Marguerie appeared, standing next to him on the first day of initiate training. She was his partner in their first sparring session, and immediately managed to punch him on the nose. Danse worried that his guard wasn’t good enough—or even worse, that he was just plain _sloppy_ —until the training sergeant rotated everyone’s partners. Marguerie ended up with Cutler, and within thirty seconds of the start whistle, she’d punched him on the nose too.

Danse had worked himself to the bone after that first day—there were too many naturally talented people in the ranks for him to be lazy. Slowly, Marguerie came into his circle, along with a few others.

With a stab of grief, Danse realised every single one of them was now dead.

_She was my friend._

“Was it worth it?” Danse snapped, glaring down at her. The emotions of yesterday were biting into him, refusing to leave. Try as he might, all he could think about was the Brotherhood—the toxicity of its rigid rules and falsely infallible leadership. Principles he had followed to the letter until very recently.

_“What possible explanation do you have for sympathising with these machines?”_

Old words. _Ancient_ words. Danse felt shame rip through him as he remembered his first encounter with Nick Valentine, ready to put him down. He would have pulled the trigger without hesitation had Quinn not stepped between them and forced Danse to back off.

Shame bubbled in the pit of his stomach. Ignorance was the enemy, and the Brotherhood was riddled with it.

Danse stood rooted to the spot, clenching and unclenching his fists. Why was he still standing here? The longer he remained, the worse he felt, old disgraces wriggling up from the grave like maggots and burrowing into his thoughts. There was only one way Marguerie would let him go—he’d have to dig down and take her tags.

Danse shivered, remembering how rigid she’d felt in his arms. His leg shook violently, and for a second Danse thought it would buckle. He managed to stagger over to the fence, gripping at it as he breathed heavily through his nose. The very thought of scraping his way through the earth to her body sickened him. He didn’t want to see her. Not when she was so cold and still. No fire in those eyes. No smirk on those lips.

_I can’t. I can’t do it._

_I have to. I need those tags._

_No!_

Before the internal argument could go any further, a familiar arm wrapped around his middle. He jumped and turned to see Quinn, her expression containing traces of worry.

“You alright?” she asked, glancing at his leg.

“Yeah,” Danse lied. “Fine.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow but didn’t persist. Instead, she brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You look like you’ve run a marathon and you’ve only walked across the street. I think you need some rest.”

Danse winced as something stinging trickled into his eye, and he wiped impatiently at his face. His hand came away slicked with sweat.

“Come on,” Quinn said, tugging gently on his arm. “Let’s go back to the house.”

“I...I need something first.” His mouth was dry, legs shaking harder than ever. But if he didn’t do it now, he never would. “Her tags…”

Quinn held a small object up for him to see, and he stared at it, his mouth dropping open in shock. The tags. _Marguerie’s tags._

“How…?” he mumbled, reaching out and taking them.

“MacCready,” Quinn said simply. “He...grabbed them for you before you buried her but forgot to pass them along.”

Danse nodded. He didn’t care whether Quinn was telling the truth or not. He had the holotags. He turned them over in his trembling hands, scanning the chipped and scratched metal. The blue light of the electronic panel glowed faintly against his skin, and with rising nausea, he saw splatters of blood partly concealing Marguerie’s serial number. Danse gripped the tags tight in his fist, a mixture of relief and guilt needling him.

Quinn pulled more firmly on his arm. “Come on,” she repeated.

Danse obeyed, turning his back on Marguerie and letting Quinn steer him away. He limped across the settlement, each step increasing the sharp pain in his leg, and by the time they’d reached home, he was exhausted. Quinn set him up on the sofa, after warning Charlie not to climb all over Danse, and then swept from the house. Five minutes later, she returned with Preston at her side, who checked over Danse’s injuries, injected a stimpak, and then re-dressed the wounds.

Sturges poked his head through the door, asking Quinn to take a look at which building she wanted repairing next. She left Danse on the sofa, promising to be back soon.

The next thing he knew, he was snorting awake to the sound of Quinn telling Charlie off for messing around with Danse’s workbench. He glanced around the room, noting the morning glow had turned bright and strong.

_“They’re tools, not toys, Charlie!”_

_“I know, mom, but I was making Mr. Danse a—”_

_“You don’t use this stuff without his supervision!”_

_“I wanted to surprise him!”_

Danse groaned as he rubbed his eyes, and Quinn and Charlie turned to face him, looking guilty.

“Sorry,” Quinn said, biting her lip.

Danse smiled to show it was fine, and shot what he hoped was a stern frown at Charlie. “What did I tell you this morning when I left?”

“Not to mess with the guns without you,” Charlie replied, scowling, suddenly looking strongly like his mother.

“And what did you do?”

Charlie didn’t reply, staring at his own feet.

“What did you do, Charlie?” Danse said, louder this time.

“Messed with the guns without you,” Charlie muttered, still gazing at the floor. He glanced up. “But I just wanted to make you a present!”

“And that’s very nice of you,” Danse said, “but if I can’t help you with a project, then you get your mother to help instead.”

“She’s been busy,” Charlie said bitterly. “Fixing stuff around the settlement. She didn’t have time for me today.”

Quinn looked upset by this proclamation, and Danse felt a spike of irritation. He could understand the need for attention, but it wasn’t Quinn’s fault if there were other things to do.

“I think you need to learn some patience,” Danse said sharply. “You know what happened yesterday, and if we can’t make time for you on a particular day, it’s for a good reason.” He tried to stand, but his leg had become stiff and aching again, and he grunted with pain.

Charlie’s eyes grew wide, and he stuffed a knuckle into his mouth.

Danse felt some of his annoyance ebb away. He leaned forward, holding Charlie’s gaze. “Look at me, Charlie. Look at my leg.”

Charlie looked.

“Weapons did that. Guns killed the woman we buried.” He decided not to add he’d been stabbed himself rather than shot. “I was incredibly lucky. But playing around with guns can get you killed. What if there was a misfire? Would you know how to stop yourself bleeding to death before you got help?”

Charlie paled, before turning a delicate shade of green. Quinn looked as if she wanted to tell Danse to stop scaring her son but clamped a hand over her mouth and stayed silent.

The last of Danse’s ire disappeared. “I’m sorry we’ve not been around much the last couple of days. It’s not always going to be this way, but right now, there’s a lot to do. Sanctuary isn’t like the Institute. We don’t have things served on a plate. Clean water, food, security...we have to provide that for ourselves, which is what your mom is trying to do. When things have settled down, I promise we can work on something together.”

Charlie blinked, his eyes watery, but nodded. “Sorry, Mr. Danse.” He glanced at Quinn. “Sorry, mom.”

Quinn nodded, but didn’t reply, her hand still firmly fixed over her mouth.

“Alright,” Danse said gently, smiling. “Off you go.”

Charlie shuffled from the room. A few seconds later, small snuffling noises came from down the hall. Quinn let her hand drop, a pained expression on her face. She picked a comic book off the coffee table and strode away to Charlie’s room without a single word. Danse stayed where he was, listening to the distant sound of Quinn’s voice as she comforted her son. When she returned half an hour later, she looked as weary as he felt.

“Sorry for ordering him around,” Danse replied, hoping she wouldn’t mind him telling Charlie what to do.

“He needs to understand how dangerous guns are, and I’m obviously not up to the task.” She smiled. “Besides, I told you—you’re going to end up a father to him.”

A warm glow ignited in his chest at these words. He squinted across the room, his gaze falling onto the workstation. “What was he trying to make?”

Quinn picked up the gun on the workstation, inspecting it. Danse recognised it as an old, salvaged laser rifle that he’d picked up from one of the visiting traders. Quinn passed it to him, and despite himself, Danse checked over Charlie’s handiwork. After a few minutes, he blinked.

“This...this is good.” Danse turned it over at every angle, looking for flaws. There were some mistakes, some shoddy work, but nothing dangerous. He met Quinn’s eye. “Did you teach him this?”

Quinn frowned. “Teach him what?”

Danse looked back at the gun. “He’s got a real talent for gun work.”

Quinn glanced nervous at the corridor. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want him to tinker unsupervised again.”

Danse nodded but smiled all the same. He felt...proud, though he wasn’t sure why. He set down the rifle on the coffee table. They still had a decision to make.

Quinn knew what he was thinking before he’d so much as spoke. She sat down on the sofa with a long sigh. “So, what are we doing about Carson?”

Danse stared at the peeling paint of a nearby wall. Against all odds, he believed Carson’s tale. That didn’t necessarily mean it was safe to let him go. “Do we trust him enough to risk Charlie’s life?”

Quinn leaned against Danse’s shoulder, and he shifted, wrapping his arm around her.

“I don’t know,” she replied eventually. “Hancock’s offered to do the dirty work, but…” She squirmed in her seat. “I’m tired of killing friends.”

When Danse didn’t respond, she went on.

“I want to believe we can let Carson go and everything will be alright. He had every opportunity to let Rachel kill us, and he didn’t.”

“Well,” Danse said eventually, closing his eyes as he gave Quinn a small squeeze, “we have some time to decide. He’s not going anywhere for the time being.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRAMAAAAA
> 
> I got a review last chapter that I wanted to address. Sadly, they gave their review anonymously, so I can’t talk to them directly. And given their gripes, they probably won’t see this. But hey, it feels good to at least respond.
> 
> 1\. Yep, BNC is very long. It’s also fanfic about the ENTIRE GAME. That means sticking to the original narrative, in all its drawn out glory. If that’s self indulgence, I can live with it. I enjoy writing, and people enjoy reading my work.
> 
> Given that you’ve only mentioned two characters, though, I strongly suspect you’ve probably skipped through most of BNC, and gotten frustrated because the two main leads haven’t fucked when you wanted to them to.
> 
> Which brings me to my next point.
> 
> 2\. Adults do have sex. Well done for noticing that. Adults do NOT all have sex the same way, though. Some people are very shy and awkward about it. Some people lose libido for many reasons. We don’t all conform to your expectations of sexuality. The fact we think you should suggests a fault on your part, not the rest of the entire human race.
> 
> 3\. Quinn and your weird standards of how women and men SHOULD behave does you no favours. Just because Quinn is a wife and mother doesn’t mean her life stops when those things are taken away from her, and nor does grief, depression, getting married, or having kids permanently deprive you of the ability to giggle. Christ.
> 
> 4\. Similarly, men are allowed to blush, whether they’re aroused, embarrassed, ashamed, or angry. The fact you think that women should be the only one to show emotions other than arousal is as boring as it is sexist. Men feel a range of emotions, and I think that should be portrayed MORE in media, not stifled.
> 
> 5\. My story is a character-driven piece. And yes, that includes my OCs. Quite frankly, I don’t really give a damn that you find them distracting. Every fanfic I’ve ever written has OC driven stories. That won’t change.
> 
> 6\. Work on your attitude, buddy, because you’re obnoxious. You don’t grant me permission to do anything, let alone ‘permission to end my story.’
> 
> It ends when I want it to end.
> 
> Q


	69. Doctor, Doctor

“Careful.”

Quinn turned around, smiling at the sharpness of Danse’s voice. He was standing at the entrance of the cave near the Red Rocket truck stop, rifle pointed and ready to shoot.

“I’m fine,” she said, crouching down and pawing through the remains of an abandoned camp, her Pip-Boy light throwing long shadows around the crevices and rocky walls. “But I think I’ve found what we were looking for.” She held up pieces of discarded equipment and preserved food—the remains of Carson and Rachel’s short stay.

Danse edged forward with a frown. “None of that is standard issue for assassination or recovery...more for a brief journey. If the Brotherhood really sent them, they would have been woefully unprepared.”

Quinn nodded as she got to her feet, wandering a little further inside. The week had passed without incident, Danse finally listening to the combined nagging of herself and Preston and letting his leg rest. The second Preston gave the okay, Danse had been back on his feet, helping with patrols and repairs.

Now, certain there was no imminent threat from the Brotherhood, both he and Quinn had ventured outside of town to investigate the truck stop and see if they could find the cave Carson mentioned. Danse’s paranoia had been steadily increasing over the days, convincing himself that the cave held all the answers, and by not looking over it _personally,_ they were leaving themselves open for an attack.

Quinn wasn’t as certain of this. But then again—as Danse was so fond of reminding her—she hadn’t been with the Brotherhood for over a decade, and had no idea the levels their intelligence and tenacity reached. The cave had already been scouted after Carson told them about it by Rose Crowcroft and a few other trusted Minutemen. Nothing was found.

But still, Danse was worried, and Quinn decided—more for Danse’s peace of mind than her own—they would investigate to see if anything had been missed.

Quinn snapped back to the present as Danse began noisily sifting through the equipment she’d found behind her. She smiled at the fact he felt the need to check everything himself, and turned around.

A dark figure in power armour towered over her, and Quinn let out a sharp gasp. Danse was at her side in an instant, dragging her behind him and aiming his gun at the stranger. Then he lowered the gun and shook his head. “Empty.”

Quinn drew closer and saw he was right. “Must be Carson’s.”

The two of them searched the rest of the cave together, taking care in one particular corner that made the Geiger counter on Quinn’s Pip-Boy crackle menacingly. But other than the junk near the entrance and Carson’s armour, there was nothing.

“We should have come here sooner,” Danse muttered, frowning. “The Brotherhood could have moved something. They could have—”

“Danse,” Quinn interrupted, touching his cheek. “If they came to Sanctuary, they wouldn’t waste time rearranging a cave. They’d finish us off.”

Danse sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I know. I’m just worried.”

She moved away from him, opening the back of Carson’s armour and clambering inside. She could give it back to Carson later, or scrap it for parts if…

Quinn cut the thoughts short. She’d deliberately been avoiding that decision, and she wasn’t about to start now. Danse had tried to start the conversation multiple times since they’d last spoke about it, but she’d always changed the subject. The longer she left it, the more on edge Danse got. She wondered if her refusal to discuss it had contributed to Danse’s unease about the Brotherhood. After all, initially he’d been the one confident that Carson and Rachel were acting alone.

As if Danse could read her thoughts, he said, “When are you going to decide on Carson?”

Quinn didn’t answer, turning on the headlight in the power armour and stomping past him to the cave exit.

_“Quinn.”_

“Do we have to talk about this now?” she snapped, not stopping as she marched away.

Danse quickly caught up with her without so much as a limp, and she marvelled over Preston’s improved medical skills. Then Danse stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop.

“This isn’t like Deacon,” he said, glaring.

“What the hell would you know about Deacon?” Quinn shot back.

“Enough to say your hand was forced by Maxson. But this time, there are choices. We can’t keep Carson confined to a house for the rest of his life.”

“Well, then he’s our prisoner,” Quinn replied, stepping smartly around Danse and carrying on.

Danse moved in front of her again, placing both hands on her chestplate and looking livid. “You’re joking, right? You don’t think he did anything wrong.”

“I _know.”_ She glanced around the cave, wondering what else lurked in the black. “But what are the _real_ options, Danse? If we let him go, that doesn’t mean he won’t tell the Brotherhood later.”

“Then kill him,” Danse said, though his face looked pale, even in the green light of her Pip-Boy. “If you really can’t trust him, we have to kill him. He’s not worth Charlie’s life.”

“But we can just—”

“We _can’t.”_ Danse dug his fingers into the chestplate. “We don’t have the medical resources for his burns, and we’re stretched on food as it is. We have to sacrifice patrols and farmhands to guard him, and it’s starting to place stress on our people. _You need to make a decision.”_

She glared back at Danse, though the helmet concealed her expression. She hated it when he was right.

Danse’s face softened. “I know you’re trying to avoid hurting anyone, but this is the wasteland. Nothing is clean out here.” He rapped his knuckles lightly on her armour. “Go talk to him. Whatever you pick, I’ll support you.”

Quinn knew he would, and that was the most annoying thing. He made it sound so _easy._ But the thought of speaking to Carson filled her with dread.

She remembered the first time she’d been held in a place against her will: the Prydwen, when Danse left her behind. That had been the time her friendship with Carson truly took hold...and not long after, Rachel too. The helplessness that consumed her back then was as clear as if it was happening now. Maybe it _was_ happening now.

How did Carson feel, trapped inside Sturges’ house? Brought food and water and medicine, but never being allowed to leave. Unsure if he was going to die, or if he’d ever see Kapraski again. Knowing he’d helped get one of his friends killed, but that the alternative had been so much worse.

And there was always the risk the Brotherhood would come looking for Rachel and Carson too, the longer they were gone. Quinn shut her eyes. No, she couldn’t keep him here. Either she trusted him or she didn’t. And despite herself, Quinn _did_ trust him.

Opening her eyes again, she nodded to Danse. “Alright.”

He stood aside and she strode away up back to the settlement. Her mouth was dry, her legs shaking. She reached Sturges’ house in good time and exited Carson’s armour, leaving it at the door.

Carson had greatly improved since Weathers first fixed him up. He could now lie propped up in the bed, and even move a little, though he was still not in a good condition. He took one look at Quinn as she walked into the room and nodded, his expression grim.

“It’s okay,” Carson said, though the fear was clear in his face. “I knew you’d have to. Just...make it quick.” He swallowed, staring ahead at the wall. “Please make it quick.”

“We’re gonna let you go,” she said, her stomach clenching. No matter how much believed the situation would be fine, the anxiety of a parent was still there. She leaned against the wall, on the verge of vomiting. Danse laid a hand on her back.

“What?” said Carson, sounding stunned. “You’re...but I...what?”

“Do you _want_ to die?” Quinn asked sharply, looking at him.

“No! I just...wasn’t expecting this.” He bit his lip. “It’s been a week. I figured if you were letting me go, I’d be long gone by now.”

“Letting you go means the Brotherhood becomes a risk to my son,” she admitted, “but…”

“You could keep me prisoner,” Carson suggested, though the idea obviously caused him a great deal of distress. His eyes flicked to the walls of the room, his skin greying. “If you’re scared for your kid, I mean.”

“We don’t have the resources.” Quinn licked her lips. “So it’s kill you or let you go...and I don’t want you to die.”

“You believe me about Rach?” he whispered, his eyes widening.

“Yes.”

Carson glanced in Danse’s direction, and Danse gave a slow nod. Carson let out a whooshing breath as he clasped his hand to his face. He gave a shaky laugh, muttering, “Thank you. _Thank you.”_

Quinn watched him, feeling...strange. Odd that the news she believed him triggered more relief than learning he was going to live.

Danse took hold of Quinn’s arm and gently pulled her away, stepping into her place. Carson stopped smiling immediately as Danse loomed over him.

“We’re letting you go,” Danse said, his voice low and dangerously quiet, “but make no mistake—threaten my family again... _I will find you.”_ The last words came out in a snarl, and Danse left the statement hanging like a guillotine.

“Danse!” Quinn said sharply, though she felt a happy twinge at _‘my family.’_

Yes. Her family.

She turned back to Carson, who had shrunk deep into his pillows, staring fixedly at Danse. She smiled. “Come on. Let’s take you home.”

* * *

The silence was broken only by the loud clangs of two sets of power armour as Quinn, Danse, and Carson picked their way through the ruins.

Not the ruins of Boston, though. Despite the fact the streets were now clear of a majority of threats, neither Quinn nor Danse wanted to stray too near to a Brotherhood patrol in the open. Besides, cutting through the city would make their journey longer, not shorter.

Instead, they had kept to the north, and were now approaching the Med-Tek research facility, where Quinn helped MacCready look for a cure for Duncan. The place made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Quinn hadn’t seen MacCready since she’d spoken to him the day after Rachel’s burial. The only sign that he’d ever been at Sanctuary was his now bloodstained overcoat, abandoned next to the bed he’d been using in the bunkhouse.

She hoped MacCready was alright.

Dragging her attention back to the matter at hand, Quinn watched Carson shuffle and stumble ahead of her, a somewhat pitiable sight. He was a far cry from the strong, battle-ready soldier that once served at Quinn’s side. Even getting him inside the suit had been a struggle, his body still wounded and weak. But the armour shielded Carson from the worst the wasteland offered, even if he only just had the energy to make it move.

Danse scowled after Carson, his face and head hidden by layers of fabric. Although he hadn’t said it, Quinn knew Rachel’s diary was concealed on his person. The Slog wasn’t too far from the Prydwen after all.

Nick happily offered to look after Charlie again, saying it had been some time since he’d met a normal kid. Quinn took this to mean _‘pre-war,’_ but she still wished Danse had picked a better moment to visit Sarah. Charlie’s words at being left alone had struck a nerve, and Quinn was tired of other people taking care of her son for her.

_Soon,_ she thought, picturing Charlie in her head. _I’ll be home soon, and everything will be fine._

“Hey,” came Carson’s voice, and Quinn shook her head slightly, bringing herself back to the present. “Isn’t this the guy that saved me?”

Quinn frowned and set off into a jog, catching up to Carson in a few quick strides, Danse just behind her. Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground was Doctor Weathers.

By the look of the dried blood all over his white coat, and sagging look of his face, he’d been here for some time. His chest was riddled with gunshot wounds, and as Quinn scanned the area for signs of what happened, she saw his brahmin a few feet away, its torn pack strewn out all over the ground.

“Raiders?” Carson asked, turning his head to survey the scene.

“No, I don’t think so.” Quinn raised her gun, her eyes narrowing. “Because Weathers’ guards are missing.”

She turned to Danse as she said this, and saw the look of a man putting two and two together. His eyes widened as he glanced from Weathers to the brahmin, and then over his shoulder where Sanctuary lay in the distance.

Quinn frowned. “What’s up?”

Danse seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, and then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He sold synths out to the Institute and spied on the rest of the Commonwealth for money. He got what he deserved.”

“Something happened to those guards,” Quinn said, a little disturbed at Danse’s coldness towards Weathers. Even if the man had been a scumbag… “I want to know _what.”_

“Isn’t it obvious?” Danse replied coolly, his demeanour shifting back to calm. “They decided they wanted his coin. Hired protection is just that: _hired._ No loyalty, and if he failed to provide their fee after he cut his visit short in Sanctuary, things would have got nasty quick.”

Quinn sensed Danse was hiding something, but she couldn’t imagine for the life of her _what._ She looked back at Weathers, and after a few moments, realised she didn’t care. So long as there was no risk to her or her people, the death of an Institute informant was well outside of her concerns. She gave an abrupt nod and took a step forward.

A loud crash sounded to Quinn’s left, and she turned to see a pale, skinny man with dark hair racing around the side of the Med-Tek facility. As he came towards the road, he tripped and went flying, his weapon skittering away as he landed near Carson.

The man scrambled to his feet and tried to run, but a feral ghoul came hurtling from where he’d just fled, leaping onto him and knocking him back to the ground. The man shrieked, trying to hold the ghoul off as it bit and clawed at him, and Quinn raised her gun, ready for a fight. But trying to aim for the ghoul without hitting the man was impossible. Suddenly, Carson took hold of the struggling ghoul and hauled it off the stranger, holding it tight.

“Shoot!” Carson bellowed, and Quinn obeyed. The ghoul fell limp in his arms, and he dropped it, staggering back into an old car and panting as he leaned on the hood. The man sat at Carson’s feet, sobbing and trying to stand. Quinn walked over, pulling her helmet off as she crouched down, while Danse kept his distance.

“You alright?” she asked, studying him. With a jolt, she realised he was wearing filthy, badly torn Institute clothes. They were caked in mud and dried blood, and the man’s face was covered in cuts and bruises, his glasses askew.

The man took one look at Quinn and his mouth dropped open. _“Quinn?”_

Quinn blinked. Had Shaun told all him employees about her? She hadn’t exactly spent enough time at the Institute for them to recognise her at a glance. “Do I know you?”

“I’m a little different from the last time we met,” he said, wiping at a cut on his forehead to stop the blood trickling into his eyes. “The serum worked.”

Quinn shot Danse a bewildered look, and even though his face was still covered, his shock was as plain as day. She returned her attention to the man. _“Virgil?”_

Virgil nodded, but to her surprise, his gaze was distinctly unfriendly. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a croak. “The radio signal to the Institute has disappeared. What did you do?”

There was no point lying to him. She could already tell by his face that he was just looking for confirmation. “I blew it up.”

“Blew it up,” Virgil repeated flatly. Hatred flickered across his face. “I see. All those people...gone.”

“Virgil—”

“Innocents _died,”_ he hissed, his features twisting into something inhuman. “I have nothing more to say to you.” He put his head in his hands, his shoulders beginning to shake.

“Gone but not dead,” Quinn said calmly, though her eyes quickly surveyed him for signs of a hidden weapon. “Father helped me evacuate the facility.”

Virgil’s head snapped up, tears streaking his dirty cheeks. His eyes glinted with suspicion. “Why would he help _you?”_

“I think you know why,” Quinn replied quietly. “I’m just disappointed you never mentioned he was Shaun before I went to the Institute.”

Virgil had the decency to look guilty, but he glared regardless. “It wasn’t my place to say.” He rubbed his eyes with a shaking hand. “And would you have believed me if I said anything?”

“No.”

“Precisely.” He sniffed, straightening up. “I did consider mentioning it when you returned with the cure, but I could see you’d suffered enough already. No point in rubbing salt in the wound.” Virgil paused, cautiously hopeful. “So it’s true? People got out?”

“People got out. Not everyone...a few died in the initial assault, and some were taken prisoner by the Brotherhood, but I don’t think anyone intends to hurt them.”

He looked as if he wanted to believe her, if only to ease his grief. Whatever the case, Virgil didn’t argue the point. Instead, he whispered, “Is Maddy safe?”

It took a few moments for Quinn to understand who he was referring to. “Do you mean Madison Li?”

Virgil responded with a frantic nod.

Quinn smiled. “Madame Prickly is safe. I promise.”

Virgil gave a choked laugh, shifted his body so he could lean against the vehicle Carson was propped up against, and covered his face with his hand. “Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

“You and Li…?” Quinn left the statement hanging.

Virgil leaned forward, impatiently brushing away his tears. “Close. We were close. We _are_ close.” He smiled softly. “Such an intelligent woman but also _kind._ Do you know how rare someone like Maddy is?”

“Your girlfriend, then?”

“No. She said I reminded her of a man called James, who helped her fix the purifier in D.C.” Virgil suddenly looked miserable. “But that’s why we were only ever friends. I reminded her _too much_ of James.”

“Li never mentioned any of this, even when I showed her your holotapes.”

“You found those?” Virgil shrugged. “Maddy was never one to talk about her personal life to strangers. And why would she? Unless you told her otherwise, she thinks I’m dead.”

A heavy silence filled the air. Quinn glanced at Carson, who was still sagging on the car and breathing heavily. But when he noticed her staring, he gave her a thumbs up, before letting his hand drop back into his lap with a loud _clunk._

Quinn opened a compartment on her armour and fished out a bottle of water, opening it. She held it out to Virgil, who stared at it for a moment and then snatched it off her, drinking greedily.

“So...the cure worked?” Quinn asked, wondering how long Virgil had been out in the open.

“Obviously,” he replied as he came up for air, spilling water down his front. Ignoring this, he returned to the bottle, tipping it back and draining every last drop before letting it fall to the floor. “But still only my specific strain. There needs to be a lot more work before a proper cure can be found.”

“That’s...amazing,” Quinn said softly. She looked back at Danse for a moment, and knew who he must be thinking of. “But...how the hell did you get here? I thought you infected yourself with the FEV so you could cross the Glowing Sea in the first place. And why leave at all?”

“Remnants of the virus still linger, it seems,” Virgil said, staring at his hands. “Radiation doesn’t appear to affect me. I’m stronger than I once was. Faster. And I have found I no longer require my glasses.” He took the frames off and poked his fingers through where the lenses would have been. “But habit dictates I continue to wear them.” He put them back on and fixed her with a piercing glare. “As for why I left my sanctuary... _you.”_

“Me?”

“Well, partly. My supplies were running low as well.” Virgil shrugged. “But the signal was gone and I wanted to know why. Was it safe to return to the main settlements? Had something happened to my former home? And if it had, was I responsible because I showed you how to get inside the Institute? And most of all...was Maddy safe?” He swallowed, his brow creasing. “I needed answers, and with your Brotherhood connections, I felt you could give me answers.”

“Well, you’ve got them,” Quinn said cheerfully.

Virgil nodded. “I have...and nothing else.” He noticed Quinn’s frown. “In my haste, I was foolish enough not to change out of my Institute uniform before going to the main settlements. I can’t buy supplies. I can’t obtain armour. My Institute rifle is almost empty. I have no food or water...no shelter. No money. And even if I found new clothes, the settlers know my face.” He drew his knees to his chest. “I’m a marked man.”

Quinn studied him, thinking hard. She would make sure Sanctuary accepted him, but another idea was pushing to the forefront of her mind. “Doctor Li is working for the Brotherhood now.”

“The Brotherhood would never take him,” Danse interrupted.

“He’s found a cure for super mutancy. Are you telling me Maxson would _turn this down?”_ Quinn snapped, shooting him a scathing look. They had agreed for the time being Danse was not to speak to anyone while they were outside Sanctuary, in case he was recognised. The Brotherhood would have informants everywhere, and if just one of them found out he was still alive…

Quinn shivered. She’d considered the possibility that informants might be living in Sanctuary, but there was little she could do about it now. Danse seemed to take meaning from her glare, because he fell silent, casting a worried glance at Virgil.

Virgil, however, seemed completely oblivious. Instead, his eyes widened. “Maddy, with the Brotherhood? She swore she’d never work with them again.”

“She also thought the Institute had gone too far,” Quinn replied, watching Virgil carefully for signs he recognised Danse’s voice. “Particularly after I showed her your final tapes.”

Virgil’s expression became anguished. “She knows what I did?” Quinn nodded and he let out a horrified groan.

“I think they’ll have him,” said Carson, his voice weak. Everyone looked at him, and he went on. “The scientists we took from the Institute are working on the ship with Doctor Li right now. Under guard, obviously, but still with access to approved projects. I heard some rumours of expanding the D.C. purifier to the rest of the East Coast.”

“I don’t care if I’m a prisoner,” Virgil said, shaking his head. “I don’t care. They’re not the Institute, and if I can see Maddy again…”

“Are you sure?” Quinn asked, frowning. “Once you’re there, you might not be able to leave.”

“If Maddy’s there, I’ll go,” Virgil said, giving her such a stubborn look Quinn was instantly reminded of her mother.

“Alright then.” Quinn stood up and offered Virgil her hand. He took it.

* * *

The parting kiss with Danse was long and sweet, if a little odd. Danse had to stand on the tips of his toes to reach Quinn in her power armour, and as they broke apart, they shared a grin.

“Be careful,” he said in a low murmur, pulling his cowl back into place. Quinn had made sure his back was turned to Virgil, so the doctor couldn’t see his face, but she still felt anxious at his exposed features.

“I will,” she replied. “And you stay safe as well.”

Danse nodded, before throwing a dark look over his shoulder at Carson. “First sign of trouble, leave. Head to the listening post. It’s close and well hidden. The Brotherhood didn’t find it while I was on the run, and I doubt they would again. I’ll meet you there when I’m finished with the Slog.” He paused. “Have you still got the tags?”

“Yes.” Quinn saw the pained look in his eyes but refrained from commenting. He knew she had to take the tags to support her story, no matter how he felt about it. “If I can get them back, though—”

“Don’t,” Danse said quickly. “Don’t make me hopeful. Please.”

She didn’t reply, and after a few moments, they parted ways, Danse continuing east while Quinn took the southern route. She threw back glances every minute or so, watching Danse grow smaller and smaller on the horizon, until eventually he disappeared from view.

There was a hiss and a clunk, and Quinn saw Carson had removed his helmet. He was grinning broadly at her, despite his sickly pallor.

“I always knew you two would get together,” he said, his tone playful. “Even if you denied it at every turn.”

“Oh?” Quinn raised an eyebrow, though Carson wouldn’t be able to see it under her own helmet. “You mean the same way you were in a state of denial about Kapraski?”

Carson laughed. “Exactly like that. Literally everyone on the ship knew it before you did. The grunts were taking bets and everything on who would cave first.”

“Bets?” She tried to sound stern, but Quinn couldn’t keep the mirth from her voice. All of this sounded so _typical_ of the Prydwen’s crew.

“Teagan,” Carson said, his smirk somehow becoming even broader. “Ingram betted you would get fed up and drag—” He stopped, shooting Virgil a wary look, before continuing. To Quinn’s surprise, he tactfully avoided Danse’s name, and she felt a rush of affection for her old friend. “Well, y’know. Drag your beloved away and yell at him until he stopped being so oblivious.”

“And how were they all going to find out who asked who out?” Quinn said, her tone light and mischievous.

“Me,” Carson said, his smile so wicked it was worthy of Hancock himself. “Teagan kept asking every time I went to pick up some equipment off him. He tried to be subtle, but...well. Subtlety isn’t Teagan’s strong point.”

“So that’s why you were so keen for—?”

No!” Carson looked alarmed at the very suggestion. “I just...I wanted you to be happy, that was all. And me and Rach thought he would…”

Carson stopped speaking abruptly, suddenly very shamefaced. An awkward mood descended, and they looked away from each other.

For the briefest of moments, things had felt like before—the two of them in a warm, comfortable friendship. But reality had returned, and with it the reminder of Rachel’s actions and Carson’s role in her death. Carson put his helmet back on, his expression grave, and the rest of the journey continued in almost total silence.

The longer they walked, the slower and more unsteady Carson became. He began to stagger from side to side, his breathing laboured, but when Quinn asked if he was alright, Carson merely waved her away and carried on.

Finally, the Prydwen came into view, and Quinn could have cried with relief at the sound of the closest patrol.

“Ma’am!” The soldiers snapped to attention as Quinn took her helmet off and approached them, identifying her name and rank. Quickly getting back into the swing of things, she barked an order for a vertibird, and watched with a twinge of satisfaction as one was immediately summoned.

_Can’t deny I’ve missed this,_ she thought, setting her helmet down inside the vertibird and then helping Carson get in. _This place still feels like I’m back on base with Nate._

Virgil managed to clamber up without assistance, and settled himself into one of the chairs. He looked terrified as they rose into the air, his knuckles white from clutching at his seat. Carson pulled his own helmet off again his grey complexion tinged with green. Quinn watched him, unable to miss the pain in his face and wondering why he hadn’t said anything about it.

“You okay?” she said, biting her lip.

“Yeah,” Carson mumbled, closing his eyes. He smiled. “I can’t wait to see Tom.”

He didn’t speak again. The vertibird flew up to main deck of the Prydwen, and when it docked, Carson remained still.

“Carson?” Quinn squinted at him. His eyes were half open, staring blankly off to some distant space. She rose to her feet, panicked. _No. No, no no._ “Carson!”

Carson slowly blinked, and relief crashed through Quinn. Licking his lips as she stomped over, he mumbled, “I don’t think I can get up.”

“Hey!” Quinn yelled at a passing knight-sergeant, ignoring the affronted look he gave her at being addressed like a misbehaving brahmin. “Get Cade here now!”

“Ma’am!” the knight-sergeant said, taking one glance at Carson’s condition and sprinting away.

A crowd was forming around the vertibird, all staring at the beached Carson. Quinn rounded on a group of wide-eyed initiates. “And don’t just _stand_ there! Help me move him!”

By the time Cade made his way to the deck, Quinn and her helpers had managed to get Carson out of his armour and off the vertibird. Cade took one look at Carson’s injuries, and then ordered him to be carried into the sick bay. He swept after his patient without a backwards glance at Quinn, leaving her sat next to Carson’s empty armour and a few remaining initiates.

“Thanks,” she said, getting to her feet and feeling sick. She turned to the knight-sergeant. “Name?”

“Hewer, ma’am,” he replied. “Karl Hewer.”

Quinn smiled. “Thank you, Karl. Do me a favour and move this armour off the ‘bird and onto the decks, please.”

Hewer flushed and uttered a _“Yes, ma’am,”_ but Quinn was already on her way up the steps to the door that led inside, Virgil at her heels. They trailed after Cade’s entourage, listening as he fired off orders to the scribes, and helped the group lowered Carson down the ladder to the main interior of the ship. However, when they followed and began to cross the walkways to the sick bay, a sharp, high voice cut through the usual noise of the ship.

_“Brian?”_

Both Quinn and Virgil whirled around to see Doctor Li standing rigid on the spot, holding wires and other scrap components.

“Maddy,” Virgil replied, sounding like he was being choked.

The junk tumbled from Li’s arms, clattering all over the walkways, but she paid it no mind as she sprinted towards Virgil, throwing herself into his embrace so hard his glasses flew off and went skidding along the metal floor. Virgil clung to her as though frightened she might disappear, and the two of them sunk into a kneeling position, still gripping each other hard.

Cade paused for only a second, before ushering the soldiers carrying Carson away. They disappeared into the sick bay, and when the soldiers filed out moments later, scribes ran back in to take their places.

Quinn did not follow, but stooped down and picked Virgil’s empty frames off the floor. She waited until he and Li broke apart, and then handed the glasses back to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, putting them on.

Quinn glanced around to see yet another crowd forming around them. She put on her best glare and snapped, “Get back to work!”

The lingering initiates and soldiers hurried away at once, leaving Quinn alone with Li and Virgil. Li turned to her, the grateful expression on her face almost alien, and said, “I’ll take him to my quarters and get him cleaned up.”

“You know I’ll need to tell Maxson he’s here.”

Li nodded as she stood up and helped Virgil to his feet. “I know.” She left without another word, clutching at Virgil’s arm and leading him away. Quinn couldn’t tell who was supporting who.

* * *

Quinn didn’t go to Maxson immediately, deciding to wait outside the sick bay until Carson was settled. When the scribes eventually began to drift out, Cade insisting he could handle Carson’s condition on his own, Quinn popped her head around the door.

“Sir?”

Cade—who had been bent over Carson’s still form laid out on a gurney—looked up and frowned. “Ma’am.”

Quinn hesitated. This was not like Cade, but she gave a weak smile anyway and stepped fully into the room. Cade did not smile back. Making a stab at conversation, she said, “Just wanted to see how he was doing.”

“Now that he’s here, he’ll be fine,” Cade said, indicating to the clean bandages and empty med-x syringes on a nearby table. He paused, apparently also unsure how to proceed, and then walked over to his desk and settled himself down. He indicated to the seat on the other side and said, “Sit.”

It was an order, not a request, and while both of them knew she outranked him, Quinn obeyed. Her heart hammered in her chest as she drew level with Cade, his shrewd gaze boring into her. She was in trouble.

“What happened?” Cade asked, locking his fingers together and peering suspiciously at Quinn. “You’ve been absent for some time.”

She shrugged, trying to look calm though her heart was racing. She recited the lie she and Carson had practiced in Sanctuary beforehand. “I left because I felt the Brotherhood was a target for groups like the Railroad. What if we hadn’t discovered the plot to blow up the Prydwen? What if future plots succeeded? I wanted to take my son somewhere that wasn’t under Brotherhood control and such an obvious beacon for our enemies.”

“So how did you come across Knight Carson and Knight-Sergeant Marguerie?”

“I found them by accident. They were in a firefight.” Quinn hesitated and then added, “Super mutants.” She relayed the tale of a daring battle, in which Rachel and Carson came looking for her and her son, worried for her safety. Quinn stumbled across them by chance, but was too late to save Rachel, only managing to drag Carson away by the skin of his teeth.

When she finished, Cade stared at her for a long while in utter silence, before frowning. “Carson shows signs of having a special salve applied to his burns. A salve that is not widely known, and something I certainly did not teach you. How was this applied? Or have you learned it from another source...in which case, you’ll be able to easily demonstrate your ability to make it.”

Quinn’s hands began to shake in her lap. “We found a doctor who—”

“No common wasteland doctor would know this recipe,” Cade interrupted.

“This one did,” Quinn replied fiercely. “Doctor Weathers. He served as a soldier in the NCR before abandoning his post and travelling to the Commonwealth.”

Cade seemed satisfied by this answer at least, because he moved swiftly to his next question. “How did Carson sustain laser burns at all? He should have been protected to a point by his armour, but these injuries suggest direct contact with his skin.”

“I…” Quinn’s mouth went dry. “He was out of his armour. Apparently Rachel convinced him to leave it while they—”

“Super mutants don’t use laser weapons,” Cade continued, ignoring her half-finished response. “So why does he have laser burns rather than traditional bullet wounds?”

“He dropped his weapon and the mutants used it,” she said faintly, aware of how weak her excuse was.

There was a long, heavy pause.

Cade glared. “I don’t believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Shameless advertising for my beta, btw. She’s recently started writing Mass Effect Andromeda fanfic, which I have helped beta for her. Go check it out!
> 
> http://waiting4morning.tumblr.com/post/160386302778/fic-where-we-begin-jaalryder
> 
> Also, I made an oopsie last chapter. I forgot to mention the scene with MacCready was inspired by an amazing drawing from illustratedacorns, which can be found here:
> 
> http://illustratedacorns.tumblr.com/post/141122038476/ok
> 
> They gave me permission. :)
> 
> I really wanted to do something rudie for this chapter because I have the maturity level of a teenage boy, but alas, it was not to be.
> 
> Bow Chicka Wow Wow.


	70. The King and the Soldier

Quinn felt her insides freeze.

“I don’t believe you,” Cade repeated, “but I can’t prove otherwise. Not if Knight Carson is defending your story.”

“I—” she began, panic-stricken, but Cade smoothly cut across her.

“Did Rachel finally snap?” Both Carson and Quinn locked eyes, and Cade gave a grunt of confirmation. “I told Rachel that concerns had been raised about her conduct and general health since Paladin Danse’s execution.”

“Concerns?” Carson spoke this time, his eyes wide and confused.

“Yes, concerns.” Cade frowned. “You must have noticed how erratic she’d been over the last few months. You were there when she drank that alcohol on the edge of the ship’s railings. How could you _not_ be concerned?”

“I was, but...I didn’t think anyone else noticed.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you bring it up with me?”

“I...I didn’t want to get her into trouble.”

Cade shook his head in disbelief. “Well, other people _did_ notice, and they _did_ tell me. I decided it couldn’t be put off any longer. I informed Rachel she would be confined to the Prydwen and assessed by myself so that we could help her. The following morning, she was gone...and Carson with her.”

Carson paled, but Quinn felt positively nauseous. If Rachel had been on the run, did that mean she was followed to Sanctuary?

Cade answered Quinn’s unspoken question. “It was decided not to pursue her. We’re already stretched thin after the fight with the Railroad _and_ the Institute, on top of our recent patrols in the Boston ruins.” He sighed. “That doesn’t explain your injuries, Carson. I can see you’re trying to protect Rachel’s reputation, but I need to know the truth.”

“Sir,” whispered Carson, trying and failing to sit up straight. “She didn’t tell me she was supposed to stay on the ship. She said we had to go find Quinn.”

Cade held up a hand to stop Carson. He tapped on his terminal, and then suddenly a speaker above the door came to life, filling the hall outside with music. At once, Quinn realised what he was doing, and didn’t need Cade’s explanation of, “To stop eavesdroppers.” He turned his head to her. “What happened then?”

“She…” Quinn let out a long breath, readying herself. The music was a little distracting, but if she was careful with her lies now, built upon the truth, with a few tweaks... “She caught up with me. Called me a traitor for leaving the Prydwen without saying anything. That I was obviously hiding something. I tried to tell Rachel why I left, but she didn’t believe me.”

“I’d gotten out of my armour at her command,” added Carson, mercifully quick to the uptake, “and used a stealth boy, like I said. She told me it was so we could assess the situation and see what was wrong with Quinn. But then she revealed herself and started threatening Quinn instead. I...I tried to step in. Hit her to try to get her weapon away from her. But…”

Cade let out a hiss of breath. “You _hit_ her? She’s one of the best on the ship in hand-to-hand combat.  You had a gun!”

“I didn’t want to kill her!” Carson fired up at once, glancing from Cade to Quinn. Quinn wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “I just...I...I don’t know!”

It seemed Cade noticed Carson’s plea to Quinn as well, because his expression cleared a little.

Carson bit his lip. “I know it was stupid. And I paid for it. Rachel got my gun off me and...and shot me. I don’t know what happened after that.”

Cade looked back at Quinn expectantly.

“I picked up her pistol off the floor while she was wrestling with Carson,” Quinn said, staring at her knees. She couldn’t meet Cade’s eye anymore. “I shot her. Killed her.” Quinn reached into her pocket and produced Rachel’s holotags, setting them on Cade’s desk. “There was nothing else I could do.”

Cade said nothing for a moment, though Quinn could sense him staring hard at her. Then finally he said, “Now _that_ I believe.”

Quinn glanced up and saw his features had softened considerably.

“Where is your son now?” he asked, his tone gentle.

“Safe,” she replied. “With friends. I don’t want to say much more than that. I understand the Brotherhood would try to protect me and my family, but I meant what I said about the ship. He’s safer out of the spotlight.”

Cade sighed and leaned back wearily in his chair, staring past Quinn. “I’ll have to give a full report to Elder Maxson, but that doesn’t mean this will become common knowledge.” He tapped slowly through his terminal, and the music cut off.

“I liked Rachel. I really did. But...I can’t say I didn’t see this coming.” Cade met Quinn’s eye. “I failed her. I thought...well, when her family died, I confined her to the Citadel, but she only seemed to improve when she eventually returned to active duty. After Paladin Danse...I wanted to try a different tack, a different treatment. So I kept her on the field, even though I could see her struggling.” He gestured to Carson. “My fault.”

“Maybe she was beyond…” Quinn started, but a cold anger rose up in Cade’s face.

“No one is beyond helping,” Cade snapped, sitting up straight again. He glanced at Carson’s wary expression, met Quinn’s eye, and then slumped in his seat. “It’s completely illogical. Detrimental almost, but I _have_ to believe it. There’s too much pointless death to deal with, otherwise.”

Quinn stared at Cade. The only time she had seen him this morose was when Stephen Cooper died. She frowned. “If you keep telling yourself you could have done something, even when you couldn’t, you’re only going to bring yourself more grief.”

Cade shrugged and stood up, walking over to Carson and checking over him, though without apparently doing much. Quinn suspected it was just an excuse to move away from the topic, as he said, “Anyway, you’re going to be fine, Carson. This NCR doctor, whoever he was, at least knew his stuff. No infection, and the worst effects of the burns have been staved off.”

Quinn felt a pang of relief as some of the colour returned to Carson’s cheeks. She nodded and smiled at her friend. As did so, she suddenly remembered something. Or at least, _someone._ “Casey,” she said, her stomach clenching. “What happened to Casey?”

Cade looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Still under my care, in the long term beds on the upper deck. But she’s awake, which is a wonder in itself. Strong girl, that one.”

Quinn rose from her chair at once. “Can I go see her?”

“Of course. She’s struggling to speak at the moment, but she’ll be glad for your company, I’m sure.”

“Quinn,” Carson said as she made for the door, “if you bump into Tom—”

“I’ll send lover boy on his way, don’t worry,” Quinn replied, smirking when Carson flushed.

Quinn made it only halfway through the ship, though, when Kapraski came barrelling towards her. His speed was startling, considering he was still using a crutch to support himself.

“Liam?” he gasped, his eyes wide.

“Sick bay. He’s going to be f—” she began, but Kapraski rushed past her without another word, the uneven clunks of his crutch quickly fading away. Quinn watched him go, and then headed up the stairs to the makeshift sick bay. The screens were still in place, scribes flitting to and fro between shielded beds. Near the back corner, propped up with what looked like all the pillows in the Prydwen, was Casey. She didn’t notice Quinn approach until Quinn was standing at the foot of Casey’s bed.

“Ma’am?” she croaked, her remaining eye lighting up with recognition. As Haylen had said, Casey’s left eye was completely gone, the surrounding skin badly warped and scarred, giving one side of her face a melted appearance. Her lopsided mouth broke out into a tremulous smile. “How are you doing, ma’am?”

“Good,” Quinn replied, trying to hide her shock at Casey’s appearance. What with Cade’s medical skill, she had expected something less...severe.

Casey’s smile turned into a grin. “Doing better than me, at least.”

“Are you alright?” Quinn carefully sat on the edge of the bed, biting her lip. “Because you look like shit.”

Casey laughed, though it quickly turned into a groan of pain. Her smile remained, though, and when she spoke again, her voice was a little stronger. “I’ll get there. Just...long recovery.” She suddenly looked exhausted, and Quinn remembered what Cade said about speech being a struggle.

“I’ll go,” Quinn said, beginning to stand. “You need to rest—”

“No!” Casey said, wincing as she did. “I...people don’t stay long. Say I need _rest._ Talking is...nice.” She scrunched her bedsheets up in her right hand. “Can you...read to me?”

Quinn blinked. But when Casey started to blush, Quinn smiled and nodded. “Sure.”

Casey beamed for a split second, before groaning and shutting her eye again. She waved her right hand to the floor. “Under my bed…”

Quinn looked and saw, with a pang, a stack of comic books. Charlie instantly dominated her thoughts.

“Quinlan brought…” Casey mumbled, but didn’t finish. She took in a slow, deep breath and said, “Can’t hold them.”

Quinn picked up the comics and knelt down next to Casey, selecting the topmost issue. “This one okay?” When Casey gave the tiniest of nods, Quinn set the others down and held the chosen issue aloft, propping her elbow on the bed. “Hmm, good taste. _‘Grognak and the Legend of Ice Maiden Cove.’_ Saucy.”

Casey didn’t reply, but Quinn felt her fingers rest gently on Quinn’s arm, giving her a grateful squeeze.

Quinn began to read, trying her best to give different voices to each character, the way she would have done with Charlie. Other passing soldiers stared, while the bedridden ones turned their heads to listen, and when she finished, there was a chorus of demand for the next issue.

_‘Grognak and the Battle for the Golden Loincloth,’_ seemed worth a read.

* * *

“You took your time in fetching me,” Maxson grumbled, striding irritably beside Quinn. Quinn ignored him. Gone were the days of Maxson’s ire dictating her moves—though admittedly, such days had always been fleeting. Her patience with him was at an all-time low.

Maxson was apparently unsure what to do with her silence, because he settled for muttering _‘disappearing without notice’_ and _‘awkward explanations’_ as they walked across the Prydwen, the clangs of their footsteps echoing through the ship. His complaints abruptly stopped, though, when Quinn rapped sharply on Li’s door, and it swung open at once.

“Come in,” Li said, gesturing stiffly with her hand, and stepped back to allow Quinn and Maxson inside.

The room was a lot smaller than Quinn’s, with just enough space for a desk and a bed. Scientific equipment was spread out across the solitary table, none of which Quinn could name. Something was bubbling and smoking in a glass flask next to a rack of test tubes filled with brightly coloured liquids, and the air smelled faintly of sea salt. Quinn wondered if all this equipment had been taken from the Institute by Li before she’d fled, or if the Brotherhood provided it for her on arrival.

Virgil was sat on the bed, his face clean and covered in gauze, staring at his knees. Maxson’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the newcomer, clearly recognising the tattered remains of Virgil’s uniform. _“Institute?”_ he hissed.

“Yes, Institute. Just like the scientists you were quite happy to integrate into the Prydwen,” Quinn said curtly, earning a raised eyebrow from Li.

“Under my supervision,” Maxson shot back, giving her one of his famous glares. Quinn remained coolly unimpressed, and he blinked, confused, before hurriedly scowling again. “Why have you brought him onto my ship?”

“Because—”

“Because,” Virgil said, finally meeting Maxson’s eye. “I am here to undo all the damage I’ve caused.”

“Damage?”

“I was in a specific branch of the Bioscience division.” Virgil’s gaze dropped, and when he’d finished telling Maxson about the super mutant experiments, he didn’t look up again. Quinn suspected if he had, Virgil would have quailed under the disgust rolling off Maxson in waves. Even Li was wearing a pained expression.

“Why,” Maxson said in a low rumble, “would I permit you to stay here after everything you’ve just told me? I should shoot you where you stand, you piece of _filth.”_

Madison Li stepped in front of Virgil, glaring defiantly up at Maxson, her arms folded tight across her chest.

_Try it,_ her eyes said. Maxson didn’t move.

“I deserve to be shot,” came Virgil’s voice from behind the posturing Li. “But I think I can give you something better than my death. Something more useful.”

Maxson snorted dismissively.

“A cure for super mutancy,” Virgil said, louder this time. “But I need a place to develop—”

“A cure?” Maxson repeated, his eyes widening. He glanced at Quinn and repeated, “A _cure?”_

“Well, a cure for one particular strain of the virus. But my research has laid the groundwork for a much wider scope. I think, with enough time and dedication…”

Maxson still looked as if he disbelieved, so Quinn nodded. “I’ve seen it happen.” She explained the condition she’d found Virgil in, the way she’d stolen his work from the Institute, and the state she had found him in since.

“You knew there was a cure, and you didn’t hand it straight to us?” Maxson said, his familiar frown creeping back into place as his tone grew more irate.

“I knew he was _claiming_ for there to be a cure,” Quinn shot back, “and he had limited time before he changed. His need was greater.” She paused, as a memory surfaced, and a great sadness washed over her. “Danse insisted I bring the cure back here too. Seemed to think using it on Virgil was a waste.”

“And he was right,” snapped Maxson. He stopped, momentarily perplexed, and then shook his head. _“It_ was right, whatever its intentions. That cure should have been delivered to our scribes immediately, not thrown away so carelessly.”

“Carelessly? Look at him! It _worked!_ And now he’s here _offering to help!_ For God’s sake, realise what you are being given! If he can develop the cure for the FEV with Brotherhood scribes, think what else he’s capable of!”

Maxson glared, and Quinn could practically hear the gears of his brain grinding as he weighed his opinions. Finally, he nodded, though he appeared impassive. When he spoke, his voice was cold and indifferent. “Very well. You may stay.” He turned to Li. “When you’ve patched him up, take him to Quinlan and get him assigned. He can start his work tomorrow once he’s been examined by Cade.” Maxson turned his icy gaze back to Virgil. “From this moment on, you’re being watched. If we suspect so much as a hint of treachery, we’ll kill you.”

Li went red with anger at this statement, but Virgil nodded calmly. “I need to atone.”

“Damn right you do,” Maxson spat. He wrenched open the door and strode from the room, barking over his shoulder, “Sentinel, follow. I’m not done with you yet.”

Quinn loathed being spoken to like a disobedient dog, but decided it was in her best interests to do as she was told for now. She nodded to Li, who gave her a lukewarm smile—a vast improvement from the frostiness of their last meeting—and then Quinn trotted off after Maxson.

He didn’t speak to her as they walked, and Quinn had no intention of striking up a conversation. The man was clearly pissed. She expected to go back up to his open office, but instead he turned left onto the main walkway, which ran through the heart of the Prydwen.

_Where the hell are we going?_ she thought as she ran to keep up with his long, purposeful strides.

Quinn got her answer almost at once. At the far end of the ship, next to the door leading to the corridor lined with the rooms of the officers, was Maxson’s private quarters. She knew it was there by whispers alone, though she had never seen the interior. Maxson pushed open the door and disappeared into the dark. Moments later, a light flickered on, illuminating the doorway, which appeared to have been left open as an invitation.

Quinn hesitated. Maxson’s private quarters? She didn’t know anyone who had been allowed in. All meetings were held upstairs in the main office, and Maxson had a habit of taking tours of the ship to speak to people directly when he wasn’t summoning them into his presence.

People would talk if she crossed the threshold, a concept that revolted her. But curiosity quickly got the better of Quinn, and she wondered how bad of a reprimand she was about to receive. Steeling herself, she walked inside, and immediately noticed a bookshelf filled with things she wouldn’t have expected from such a fearless war leader.

Toys. Toys, books, and other odd trinkets and mementos. She even saw Danse’s book there, with what she suspected were Cutler’s holotags next to it. There was a fleeting second where she considered stealing them to take back to Danse, when a clang of the door made her jerk her head up instinctively. Maxson stood in front of her, and Quinn felt herself slip into a state of shock. The moment the door swung shut behind her, he did something she had never seen him do before.

He _smiled_ at her.

Not bitter or fleeting or forced, but a broad, _genuine_ smile. Maxson seemed to radiate delight, the years of burden sliding off his broad shoulders as his sharp eyes softened and crinkled at the corners. The effect was rather unnerving, and Quinn found herself wishing for the old, grumpy Maxson to return.

“Well done,” he said, still grinning. “Well _done.”_

“Well done?” she blinked.

Maxson nodded. “For bringing Virgil to us. I don’t think you realise how many lives you’ve just saved. How much future misery you’ve prevented. A cure for the FEV.” He shook his head, still grinning bemusedly. “I never thought I’d live to see the day...a _cure.”_

He stared past Quinn, lost in jubilation, and then snapped his eyes back to her. The more Quinn looked at him, the more he appeared to be a completely different person. His posture was relaxed, every trace of his awkward, stiff-backed stance absent. His stern expression was a distant memory, and even his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, the gruff edge gone.

Quinn wondered if—away from the demands of the Brotherhood—this was the real Elder Maxson. He was definitely more like the twenty year old he was supposed to be, at any rate. She felt a faint stab of pity.

“Drink?” he said, pulling her back to reality. She blinked stupidly and he laughed, a low, pleasant chuckle that intensified her bewilderment.

“I, uh...no thanks,” Quinn said, her cheeks going hot. He was obviously trying for a nice gesture. Would he be offended?

“Ah, yes. I forgot. Cade sent me his report after your little...incident.” Maxson gave a knowing nod and poured himself out a generous measure into a well-used glass. As he did so, Quinn noticed a slight tremor of his hand. He set the bottle down without replacing the cap, picked up his drink, and drained it in one go.

“You...you know about that?” Quinn said, horrified. Cade said he wouldn’t tell anyone else.

“Of course I know,” Maxson replied, pouring himself another drink and dropping down into a chair. He leaned precariously on its back legs and propped his booted feet up onto his desk, raising his glass to her. “I know everything that happens on this ship.” He took a sip. “How else could I care for my men and women otherwise?”

“But Cade said—”

“Cade said it wouldn’t go on your official record. He did _not_ say he wouldn’t tell me.” Maxson raised an eyebrow. “You’ll often find your harshest critics aren’t the officers, but the very soldiers you work with. I feel I am more lenient than people give me credit for.”

Maxson drained his glass again with ease, and Quinn narrowed her eyes. “You keep drinking like that you’ll end like Danse...or me.”

He considered this for a moment and shrugged. “Becoming the type of soldier Danse was wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing...even if the price is alcoholism.”

“Bullshit.” She didn’t like the way he was talking at all. As if he’d accepted some sort of fate, or hoped for it.

He gave another chuckle, this one drier than the last, and shook his head. “That’s what I always liked about you. As though you consider sugarcoating for weaker men. Even when you try to be diplomatic, your face gives you away.” He met her eye as he set down his glass. “You’re a constant pain in my ass, but I always know where I stand.”

Quinn didn’t know what to say to that, and after a few beats of silence, the mood in the room shifted. Maxson began to look uncomfortable. He let his chair fall onto all four legs with an echoing _clunk,_ and he took his feet off the desk and placed them back on the floor. His features set into their usual stern arrangement, and his posture stiffened as he tensed. The years piled back onto him, and he was suddenly worn and weary again. Old before his time.

Even in this most private of sanctuaries, Maxson couldn’t fend off the professional front drilled into him, and Quinn remembered what she had accused him of when he tried to execute Danse.

_Child soldier._

There was that pity again.

“In a lot of ways, you remind me of Sarah Lyons,” Maxson said, his voice heavy as his eyes flicked longingly to his empty glass. “She was a strong woman too. Exceptional in every regard. Had a lot of burden on her shoulders after her father died, but she always found time for me.” His fingers twitched as if he was going to pick up the glass, but he stopped himself. “My only childhood friend, really.”

“Besides Danse?”

Maxson didn’t answer.

“I’ve been told you’re keeping the Institute scientists,” Quinn said, more for a change of topic than anything else. “That you’re planning to bring the water purifying technology from D.C. to the rest of the country. Or at least the East Coast.”

Maxson nodded, apparently happy for the new subject. He ran his hand through his beard and said, “I still remember Owyn Lyons’ lessons...what he tried to teach me before he died. The greatest failing of the Brotherhood is the perception of self sufficiency, while relying on people we so readily disregard. The common man is not our other, but an equal.”

“I don’t understand.”

His face twisted into a grim expression. “Then Proctor Teagan clearly never recruited you into his food drives. We’re soldiers, not farmers. When we can’t feed ourselves, we strike deals with traders and settlers, or remove their food by force. Most of us—particularly our veteran officers—see it as our right. We are preserving technology, they say, saving mankind from itself. We don’t need common wastelanders in our ranks, we won’t defend them from threats, and we won’t allow them the technology we hoard...but we’ll take their food.”

Quinn frowned. “But...we do defend them. The Brotherhood patrols…”

“All Elder Lyons’ design,” Maxson said, tilting his head up in her direction. “He caused a civil war in the East Coast branch by allowing outsiders to join us. By demanding we patrol the Capital Wasteland and protect the civilians there. By working with scientists to bring clean water to the people.

“When I took charge, I struck a compromise. Return to the old ways, and use the patrols as a way to gain trust and cooperation. But this is not sustainable for anyone. We have so much technology at our hands, and yet we stagnate. We need clean water. We _need_ clean food. The Institute scientists can help make this a reality.”

“For the Brotherhood?”

“No. For everyone.” He leaned back in his chair, though his posture was still stiff. “Owyn Lyons was a good man, and he had the right idea, but his approach was too heavy handed. I am young. I have the time he did not to slowly bring about change. To make a worthy impact. He taught me as much. But first, we need to earn the trust of the people. Cleansing the Commonwealth of its filth is only the beginning.”

At his words, a series of faces flashed through Quinn’s head: Danse, Hancock, Sarah, Rachel.

“I’m leaving the Brotherhood,” she said.

Maxson sat up so suddenly he nearly fell off his chair. “What?” He looked stunned, as if she had just proclaimed she’d murdered Owyn Lyons herself. “Why?”

“Because your world only accepts the people you think are desirable. I want a world with a place for everyone.”

“I thought you wanted to help the Commonwealth!”

“You know _nothing_ about helping the Commonwealth,” Quinn snapped, and Maxson seemed so surprised he merely stared at her, unable to speak. She loomed over him, feeling like a parent about to scold an unruly child. “How could you know? You’ve spent your entire life paraded around by soldiers, sheltered from the reality of the wasteland. Kept on a pedestal where your only friends still had to call you _‘sir.’”_

“I never wanted it,” Maxson hissed, his pale face burning scarlet as his eyes crackled with malice. “Any of it! I had to make do with what I was given!”

“And it _shows,”_ Quinn fired back. “You’ve never been out there. Not on some mission, but day to day life, struggling to survive, wondering when you’re next meal is or whether your crops will keep this year. If your roof will hold or the raiders will come and kill your family. Sure, you have the time Owyn didn’t, but you lack his wisdom and experience with the real world. _You don’t know._ You have no _idea_ what the Commonwealth needs, and you’re in no position to decide it.”

Maxson rose to his feet, towering over her, face ravaged with fury. But he still seemed unable to argue back, and despite his size, he felt so much smaller than Quinn.

“Cleansing the Commonwealth,” she said, looking up coolly at him. “What does that even _mean,_ Maxson? Where do you draw the line?”

“It means we protect the people from the unnatural scum that plagues the wasteland,” Maxson snarled, apparently finding his voice. “Something I’ve received no complaints about, so far.”

“Ghouls? Super mutants? Synths?” she asked, and when he nodded, she said, “And what about non-feral ghouls? What about Danse? Are they a plague as well?”

“We don’t target non-ferals,” Maxson replied, scowling, ignoring the mention of Danse completely.

“You still treat them like crap.” Quinn smiled bitterly, though her eyes remained fixed on his. “I saw Danse’s behaviour towards them. Rachel’s too.”

“Rachel?”

“Knight-Sergeant Marguerie,” Quinn said. “Cade might have sent _that_ report to you already.”

“He did.” Maxson’s momentary confusion disappeared, his glare returning. “Was that bullshit as well?”

The swearword threw her, and she blinked at him, her mouth hanging open. It would have been the perfect opportunity for Maxson to seize control of the argument, but he appeared equally surprised at his fierce utterance, and didn’t speak.

“Yes, it was,” Quinn admitted after a few seconds.

“You continue to be honest with me, to your detriment. Why? You’ve never taken issue with hiding your motives before.”

“Because Danse always valued honesty as much as he valued your opinion,” she replied curtly. “I guess his habits are rubbing off on me.”

Maxson frowned at this, looking uncomfortable, before shaking his head. “What happened?”

Quinn hesitated. She risked putting Carson in a dangerous position, but something told her Maxson needed the truth. He needed to see the self-destructive path he was leading the Brotherhood down.

Quinn told Maxson _everything,_ from the real fate of Rachel’s family, to the reaction she’d had when she’d learned Danse was a synth. Quinn told him of the paranoia that gripped Rachel, the despair, the grief, and slow downward spiral no one seemed willing to pull her from. Quinn felt ashamed as she said this, remembering how Danse sent her to Cade, against her wishes. She’d been too afraid to do the same for Rachel—to _help_ Rachel. But this was unnecessary for Maxson to know, and so Quinn continued on.

She revealed the suspicions Rachel had about Quinn’s son—though Quinn took care to frame this as further evidence of Rachel’s wavering sanity—to the pursuit all the way to Quinn’s home. And finally, the attack, and the threats that Rachel would bring Maxson to Brotherhood justice, even at the cost of the Prydwen and her crew.

“She said she was going to murder me, Danse, my son...and everyone in my settlement,” Quinn finished. “She was out of control. And if I hadn’t killed her, it would have been a bloodbath.”

Maxson hadn’t spoken a word throughout Quinn’s tale, but now his eyes narrowed. “You mentioned the synth—”

“Danse.”

“—as if you’re _living_ with it.” He didn’t bother to conceal the disgust in his tone.

“I am,” Quinn said, deciding she wasn’t bickering over pronouns. “I love him.”

_“Love?”_ Maxson looked as if he wanted to vomit.

“Don’t give me that shit,” Quinn snapped. “You cared about Danse. Enough to try and make sure he lived while pretending you wanted him executed.”

Maxson snorted. “There was no pretence in my orders. You were the one who refused to cooperate, and I needed _you_ more than I needed his death.”

“Liar.”

Maxson bristled with indignation. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re a liar. You could have sent anyone to deal with Danse. _Anyone._ Rachel Marguerie practically begged you for the ‘honour.’ Instead, you sent me.”

“I had to test your loyalty.”

“You sent the one person least likely to kill him. The one person who had bets being taken about whether they would become an item with Danse. It was no secret we had feelings for each other. You weren’t testing me. You knew damn well I wouldn’t do it.” Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Only you panicked, didn’t you? Began to regret letting me go. What if you were found out? So you followed me to the bunker and tried to make sure the job was done after all.”

Maxson stared at her. For a second, she thought he might admit it. Then he shook his head and said, “You’re deviating from the matter at hand—the consequences of your continued associations with the syn—”

“For fuck’s sake!” Quinn yelled, slamming her fist against the wall. How dare he blame her? “You still don’t get it, do you? This is your fucking fault!”

“My fault?” Maxson raged back, and Quinn wondered if their words would carry into the corridors. Maxson seemed to be thinking the same thing because he paused. When he continued, his voice was low and threatening. “I wasn’t there, and nor did I provoke one of my sisters by fornicating with a machine.”

Blind rage engulfed Quinn. With a piercing shriek, she lashed out at Maxson. He dodged smoothly out of the way, gripped her outstretched arm by the wrist, and flung her backwards into his bookcase. Toys and other pieces of sentimental crap rained down around her, but Quinn struggled on, kicking and scratching with every free limb she had. Maxson grunted as her foot connected with his shin, but he was far bigger and stronger than her. With almost no effort, he pinned her in place, their faces inches apart.

“Rachel clung to the Brotherhood’s doctrine at the cost of everything and everyone she loved,” Quinn spat, feeling as incensed as Maxson looked. He had turned bright red, his eyes taking on the same silent fury as when Quinn challenged Danse’s execution. “As far as I can tell, the Brotherhood had no issue with synths until _you_ made it an issue. _You_ stoked the fires of hatred against non-humans. _You_ caused the paranoia and the fear in the ranks, making people turn against their own for no goddamn reason. _You_ forced Danse to be an outcast. _You_ caused Rachel to abandon her child!”

“People are free to make their own decisions,” Maxson retorted, though he appeared troubled. “No one told her to—”

“What options do you think she _had?”_ Quinn said, and she felt Maxson’s grip loosen. She didn’t try to fight him again, though. “Ostracization? Maybe even risking her daughter’s life, if the attitude towards ghouls soured further?”

He didn’t answer. Slowly but surely, he let go and stepped back. Quinn rubbed her wrist and glanced down. Bruises were already beginning to form in the shape of Maxson’s fingers. He stared at the imprints he’d left behind, a guilty expression on his face, and when Quinn tried to catch his eye, he looked away.

“If you really want what’s best for the people, then you need to distance yourself from the Prydwen and see the world for what it really is.” Quinn gestured to the ship. “You aren’t fit to make decisions for anyone until you do.”

“You can’t leave,” Maxson said, blatantly not listening to her. “I...you have been an asset to the Brotherhood. I can still reveal Danse is alive. I can make him...it a marked man. I mean, machine.”

Quinn snorted, and Maxson finally glanced up again, frowning. She shrugged, her tone cold. “No, you won’t. You stand to lose as much as me if word got out. Danse told me so.”

“Danse…?”

“You don’t think I’ve been cooperative all this time out of the goodness of my heart, do you? Danse was the one who would have laid down his life for your cause, not me. And look how you repaid him.” She laughed mirthlessly, and Maxson winced. “Well I’m through. Your bigotry will hurt more people than it will help. Rachel was just the first.”

Maxson didn’t respond to this, so Quinn went on.

“Elder Lyons left you a mantle of goodwill and the foundations to build bridges with _all_ people of the wasteland.” She fished into her pocket and pulled out Rachel’s tags. They gleamed dully in the lighting of the room, before Quinn threw them at Maxson’s feet. “That’s your legacy.”

She turned on her heel and stormed towards the door. As her fingers seized the handle, though, she stopped. As much as Quinn had shouted at him, Maxson hadn’t _chosen_ this life. No, his Brotherhood carers chose for him. Groomed to be a ruthless general, Maxson had no context to balance the ideals forced into his head. Elder Lyons might have offered talk of a better wasteland, with aspirations to help the people, but what good was that, with no one to tell Maxson _how?_

Quinn glanced over her shoulder at him. He was standing rigid on the spot, caught between rage and confusion. She could tell he was furious with her, but the way his eyebrows knotted together suggested he wasn’t entirely sure _why._ Never had he looked so young and uncertain.

“Tell the others I’m staying here to further the Brotherhood’s interests on your orders. Top secret. I am not to be sought after. I am not to be disturbed.” Quinn gave him her best glare. “And then leave the Commonwealth and never come back. You’ve done enough damage.”

Would he listen? She didn’t know. He blinked at her like she’d slapped him across the face, but Quinn didn’t wait for a retort. She wrenched open the door and strode from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> This week's chapter title is inspired off my favourite Suzanne Vega song, The Queen and the Soldier. I highly recommend you give it a listen and pay close attention to the lyrics. Absolutely wonderful.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-I_7M_JeSoc
> 
> There is a lot of meta discussion on tumblr surrounding Maxson and his upbringing, and I wanted to introduce my take on it. Maxson makes a lot of horrendous decisions, but I don't feel they are necessarily his fault. He is sheltered. He has zero context for the world around him. And boy does it show.
> 
> I honestly just feel sorry for the man.
> 
> What are your thoughts?


	71. Reparations

The holotags were to remain with Quinn.

Danse knew this— _hated it_ —but he also understood the necessity.  They had to be handed in to strike Marguerie off the Brotherhood’s list. Official closure, as well as supporting the story Quinn would give to anyone that asked.

_Official closure._

Danse snorted to himself, his hands gripping at his gun. Official closure existed for one reason: to pass on the deceased holotags to their families. The malicious irony brought a sour taste to Danse’s mouth, and he felt his face twist with disgust. No one knew Marguerie’s daughter still lived. The tags would never reach their rightful owner.

Every step he took—every _inch_ he moved from those tags—felt like a betrayal to Sarah. He was going to tell the girl her mother was dead, that he murdered Marguerie, and had nothing to show for it.

_Well, not nothing._ The sketchbook rested against his heart like a shield, pressing uncomfortably into his ribcage. _Small price to pay for a child’s mother._

Would she remember him? It had been months since he’d seen her. Danse recalled how cheerful she’d been, even knowing her father was likely dead. And brave, too. Chasing after super mutants with _rocks._

Danse grinned to himself, but the smile slipped away almost immediately. He told Marguerie this on her grave. And just like then, Danse knew she would have been proud of Sarah. A shame Sarah would have no memory of Marguerie at all...or maybe a blessing. Marguerie’s absence must have hurt on some level.

He wondered if Sarah would ever grow to be as tall as her mother. Now he thought about it, the idea of MacCready and Marguerie being an item wasn’t so strange. She’d always liked men shorter than her. George had only come up to her chin.

Danse chuckled to himself, the day she’d brought George to the base as clear as day. There had been some teasing from the other grunts, but for once, Marguerie didn’t rise to it. The smile on her face as she’d sat with George, ignoring the taunts, was clear for everyone to see: _love._

Danse stopped in his tracks, staring across the dead landscape. In the distance, he could just make out the Slog, the sun gleaming off the surface of its tarberry filled pools. He focused on the shifting shimmers, trying to push Marguerie out of his mind, and then immediately found himself distracted as a brahmin ambled into view. For a panic-stricken second, he thought it was Weathers, before remembering Weathers was dead.

The discomfort that gripped him when they found the doctor’s body returned in full force. Although Danse wasn’t entirely certain of Weathers’ fate, he still had a pretty good idea, and it involved a certain ghoul pressing money into the outstretched hands of Weathers’ guards.

Danse wasn’t an idiot, and neither was Quinn. She would never buy his flippancy over Weathers’ death. He’d lied to her anyway.

_Lied._

Danse felt slightly sick, even if he’d deceived her for the best of reasons. But he’d live with it. Danse knew Quinn, and he _knew_ she’d feel responsible if he shared his suspicions. After all, she was the one to tell Hancock that Weathers took bribes from the Institute. And while Quinn was more than capable of doing what was necessary, she also clung to her outdated morals.

Danse loved her for them. Letting Weathers leave on the proviso he never came back, despite his Institute leanings. Honouring a man’s word and upholding hers in turn. It was so... _pre-war._

Danse supposed that’s why deciding Carson’s fate took so long. But Quinn had deemed Carson a potential threat. Weathers, she had not, now the Institute was gone. And to have him killed when he posed no immediate risk…

No, Quinn would not approve. So Danse lied. She had enough on her plate at the moment without the added guilt of a worthless corpse.

Danse shook his head and strode on. He was fixating on something he only suspected, even though the evidence was pointing to the same person. But what Hancock may or may not have done was none of Danse's business. He had Quinn and Charlie to think about.

Slowly, he drew near to the Slog. Even from a distance, Danse could see the ghoul residents tense at his arrival. His face was still covered. Hoping they wouldn’t be too alarmed when found out who he was, Danse made his way over to Wiseman. “I don’t know you remember me, but…”

A chorus of _“Paladin Danse!”_ hit the air, the residents moving to crowd around him. Danse winced, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder as if the Brotherhood were right at his heels, and he heard Wiseman hiss, _“Shh! You know he’s supposed to be dead!”_

“Thanks,” Danse replied, turning back to face Wiseman and holding out his hand.

Wiseman stared at him, and Danse inwardly cursed. The first time he’d been here, he’d been nothing short of awful. Of course they wouldn’t forget that in a hurry. The only reason they’d tolerated him was because of Quinn, and she wasn’t here now.

“Sorry,” Danse said quickly, attempting to withdraw. But Wiseman seized his hand and shook vigorously.

“I don’t remember the last time a smoothskin offered to shake hands,” the ghoul rasped, beaming.

“It’s not a big deal,” muttered Danse, his cheeks hot.

“Oh, but it is.” Wiseman fixed Danse with a piercing stare. “It really is. You’ve come a long way, Paladin.” He gave a friendly squeeze and let go.

“I’m not a paladin anymore,” Danse replied, meeting Wiseman’s eye. “And that’s probably for the best.”

Wiseman laughed, stepping forward and clapping Danse on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink. What’s your poison? And where’s Quinn?”

“Non-alcoholic,” Danse said as the two of them walked inside the building in the centre of the settlement. “Quinn had business with the Brotherhood. She’ll be joining me here later. But—”

“Nuka-Cherry?” Wiseman said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a dusty, magenta bottle.

“Uh.” Danse blinked. He’d never tried anything other than normal Nuka-Cola. “Sure.”

Wiseman produced a rusted bottle opener from his pocket, prised off the cap, and then slipped both back into his pocket. He passed the drink to Danse, who cautiously sipped. It was far sweeter than normal cola, but nice in its own way.

Danse had a little more to be polite, then said, “I’m not on a social visit unfortunately.”

“Oh?” Wiseman poured himself vodka, neat, and sipped it from a chipped coffee mug.

Danse stared at the alcohol, momentarily distracted, before shaking his head. _Focus._ “I’m here to see Sarah. The little girl?”

“Sarah?” Wiseman repeated, and Danse heard something in the ghoul’s tone he didn’t like. “Why do you want to see her?”

“I...I think I found her mother. Her name was Marguerie. Ra—”

“Was?” There was a clatter as Wiseman knocked over his mug, sending vodka everywhere. But he didn’t seem to notice, staring hard at Danse. “Is Rachel…?”

Danse nodded. “Yes.” Wiseman knew Marguerie’s first name, without being told. Danse’s doubts melted away, though his stomach still felt tight. He forged on. “I need to speak to Sarah. Need to...pass on some items, as well as the bad news.”

Wiseman pressed his lips together, his ravaged face paling. Danse waited, dread starting to creep over him as the ghoul struggling to speak. Finally, Wiseman’s brow knotted together and he bit his lip. “I’m...I’m sorry, Danse. Sarah’s gone.”

* * *

Quinn's breaths beat to the rhythm of her footsteps, sharp and painful. She didn't know where else to go, what to do. Maxson's attitude enraged her. After everything she told him, the first thing he could comment on was her relationship with Danse. Why was it so important to him? Why was he so fixated on condemning Danse and keeping her here?

She shook her head and stomped on, ignoring the initiates that scurried out of her way to avoid her wrath. No doubt some of her altercation with Maxson had carried to the rest of the ship. She only hoped the finer details had been lost in the scuffle. As she reached the middle of the walkways, though, Quinn stopped. There was one place on this stupid ship she was guaranteed privacy. Maxson wouldn't follow her there now—not after the way she'd spoken to him.

Smiling bitterly to herself, she turned on her heel and marched back the way she came, before turning right to the officers' dorms. At the end of this new corridor was her own room. Her sanctuary away from so many staring, questioning eyes.

She opened the door, and halted in the doorway, staring. There was someone sitting on her bed, someone she hadn't expected to find.

"Josh?"

Joshua Cooper sprang to his feet at once, scarlet in the face. He practically punched himself in the chest as he saluted and said, "Ma'am! Sorry for the intrusion, ma'am!"

Quinn smiled at him. "Relax, Josh. I said you could come here, remember?"

Josh's faced deepened to maroon, his fist still digging into his chest. "I know, but...I didn't want you to find me here."

"Why not?"

"Because...it's a private place."

Quinn frowned. Private for who? She gestured for him to sit down, and after a few seconds, Josh relented, letting his arm fall to his side. Quinn grabbed the chair from next to the old desk, and set it down opposite him. Then she went to the lockers lining the walls and rummaged through them. The last time she had done this, it was Bantios who needed her comfort. Quinn felt a pang in her chest as she located her stash of Nuka-Colas, and wondered how good of a job she did after all. He'd still gone to fight the Institute. He'd still died. Saved everyone in the process. Quinn hadn't even stayed for his funeral.

"Ma'am?" came Josh's high voice from behind her. "Ma'am, are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine," Quinn lied, stepping back from the lockers, a bottle clutched in each hand.

"Oh, wow! Nuka-Cola!" he said at once, sounding thrilled. "My mom only ever let me try it once!"

There was a pause, and Josh made a noise like he was being strangled. Then he pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in them.

Quinn decided not to comment and instead prised the caps off the edge of her desk, grinning slightly at the thought of Danse's expression if he could see her now. He'd be horrified at her using his old workspace for such a purpose. She wiped the smile away as she approached Josh, though, and nudged him gently with his bottle as she sat down in her chair. It wasn't as comfy as Mrs. Bossanova's old armchair, but it would do.

Eventually, after a few dogged nudges, Josh took the bottle and sipped reluctantly. Quinn saw his eyes widen slightly before taking a longer swig, like a broken man drowning his sorrows with booze.

"How have you been, Josh?" Quinn said, drinking from her own bottle.

"Shit," he muttered.

"Hey," Quinn said sharply, making Josh flinch. "No swearing."

_God, I sound like my mother used to._

"You swear! I've heard you!" Josh replied indignantly.  
  
_God, he sounds like I used to._

"Yeah, well," Quinn mumbled, hiding her hypocrisy behind another sip of the cola, "it's a bad habit. Don't do it. I won't be letting my son swear."

"He will if you carry on swearing," Josh said bluntly, glaring at her. "Kids look up to their parents." He paused, looking upset. Josh hid his face behind his knees again, holding the bottle lazily between his fingers. It was at great risk of falling. Quinn leaned forward and plucked it from his hand, setting it down on the floor next to her.

She was reminded of Nate's annoyance whenever she’d sworn in front of Shaun, telling her she was setting a bad example to their son. Quinn had promised she'd put a lid on it, and managed for a while. Then the apocalypse happened. Small promises fell by the wayside after that.

"They'll be proud of you," Quinn said gently, setting her own drink down. "Because you're right. Charlie will copy me."

Josh lifted his fingers slightly to show he heard her but didn't look up.

"How are things with Michelle?"

"Bad," Josh said, his voice muffled by his knees. "All she does is cry. She's stopped teaching, too. They had to get a scribe called Haylen to take over.” He finally raised his head again. "I like Haylen. She's nice."

Quinn smiled. "I like Haylen too. She's a friend of mine."

Josh seemed to uncoil himself, sitting up straighter. "I like coming to talk with you, ma'am. Can I...am I allowed to talk to you more often?"

Quinn bit her lip. "Josh..."

His face fell. "Oh. Sorry." He started to get up from the bed, looking embarrassed.

“No, it's not like that," Quinn said quickly, holding out a hand to stop him. "I'd be more than happy to talk with you if...if I was staying."

Josh fell back onto the bed with a soft _flump._ "You're leaving?"

Quinn nodded. "I have a new mission, elsewhere in the Commonwealth. It's going to take a long time to do. I might never be coming back." At the look on Josh's face she hastily added, "I'm sorry! I know it's not the best news but—"

"Take me with you," Josh said at once, grabbing her hand. "Please, take me with you. Don't leave me here. Please!"

Quinn's words caught in her throat. More than anything, she wanted him away from the Brotherhood. She could see the misery this place inflicted on him. The loneliness. An Elder Maxson in the making. But with the plans she had for Sanctuary, and the ideals the Brotherhood put into their children, it wouldn't be safe to bring him. He would hate what he saw. May even try to escape back to the Prydwen if it became too much. And not only would he risk his life in the attempt, but if he _made_ it, then Charlie and Danse's lives would be at risk, too.

She cared for Josh. But he wasn't her son.

Quinn shook her head. "I'm sorry, Josh. I can't. It's too dangerous. No mission for a child. Besides, if you went with me. You'd never see Michelle again. Or any of your friends. Or—"

"I don't want to see her again," Josh said, his face burning scarlet. "I don't care about this place anymore. My mom and dad are dead, and for what? You couldn't even tell me why they died! Because they died for nothing! _I'm on my own, and it was for nothing!"_

He screamed the last sentence in her face. Quinn didn't stop him. Didn't even challenge him. He was right. But it changed nothing. Even if Josh adapted to life at Sanctuary, to Danse's survival, to all her plans, Maxson would never agree to let him go. And if she took him, the Brotherhood would turn the wasteland upside-down to find him. Missing soldiers were one thing, but children? She knew enough of Maxson's history to understand he would stop at nothing to make sure the boy was safe.

“No,” Quinn said, making her tone cold and final. “You have to stay here.”

Josh glared up at her. _“Fuck. You.”_

He wrenched his hands away and ran from the room before she could so much as move. Quinn sat in her uncomfortable chair, shocked, letting what had just happened sink in. She could have taken him away from all of this. Taken him somewhere he could be a normal kid.

Quinn stayed sitting in the empty room a little while longer, staring at the wall, before forcing herself to get up. There were things to do. No time to mope. She had to say goodbye to Carson.

* * *

Maxson was already in the sick bay when Quinn walked through the door. He turned around to see who had entered, and then promptly put his back to her. When he began to speak again, it was as if she wasn’t in the room.

“I need people I can trust with the operations ahead of me. The Sentinel speaks most highly of you, and given the circumstances we discussed, I think you have shown you stand for what is right above all else. Do you agree?”

“I...yes sir.” Carson was pale and wide-eyed, staring up at Maxson. Aside from when he’d been questioned over Danse’s synth status alongside Rachel, Quinn was sure Carson had never held an actual conversation with Maxson.

“Good.” Maxson saluted. “Ad victoriam, Knight-Sergeant.”

“Ad victoriam, sir.” Carson tried to salute, but his arm trembled and dropped lamely back to his side. If Maxson cared, he didn’t show it, striding from the room without another word and deliberately avoiding Quinn’s eye.

They waited until Maxson’s footsteps died away. Quinn cleared her throat. “What was all that about?”

“I’ve been promoted,” Carson said weakly, staring at the foot of his bed.

“Congratulations.” The word sounded insincere, and Quinn felt her cheeks burn. However, Carson shrugged.

“He said he had a conversation with you about the future of the Brotherhood. He wants my input when I’m better. Said as a survivor of what happened with Rachel, I’m in the best position to advise him so that it doesn’t happen again. Highlight the failings that caused her to slip so far.” Carson looked up at Quinn, and she saw an empty sorrow in his gaze. But then something shifted, and anger blossomed from the depths. “You—”

An irregular clunking made him stop, and seconds later, Kapraski burst into the room, leaning heavily on his crutch. “Christ, am I allowed back now? What the hell was he playing at, sending me out? You’re _my_ partner, for christsakes!”

“Tom—” Carson began, but Kapraski ignored him, propping himself precariously on the crutch while he started fussing over the state of Carson’s pillows, which were not sufficiently fluffed to Kapraski’s satisfaction.

“Tom,” Carson said louder. “I need to speak to Quinn.”

Kapraski paused, his brow furrowing. “So? Whatever it is, you can say it in front of me. I already had to wait somewhere else while Maxson was here. I’m not doing it again.”

“Yes, you are.” Carson locked eyes with Kapraski and frowned. “Please leave.”

Kapraski was as stunned as Quinn felt. Carson had never been so firm with his boyfriend before, usually letting Kapraski take the lead. Now he was putting his foot down. The effect was quite unnerving.

“I…” Kapraski glanced at Quinn, clearly hurt. Then he nodded. “Alright. I’ll just be down the hall.” His eyes flicked back to Quinn as he said, “Come find me when you’re done.” With that, he managed to get himself upright and hobbled out from the sick bay.

Carson sighed as Kapraski left. “He’s pissed. I’ll be in for it later.”

Quinn sat herself down on Cade’s desk and studied him. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You know what.” Carson nodded towards the open door, menace cracking his features. “You _told Maxson?_ Did you even stop to consider what kind of shit you might be dropping me in?”

Quinn hesitated. Carson had been honest with her over Rachel. She owed it to him to be honest over Maxson. “I did.”

“And you told him anyway?” When Quinn nodded, he let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, I see. Fish me out of the frying pan and throw me into the fire, right?”

“It’s not like that—” she began.

“I know it’s not,” Carson snapped, glaring at her. “Lucky for you, Maxson didn’t flip the fuck out and have me executed on the spot to hide his secret. But you didn’t know that. Anything could have happened. Tom could have been dragged into it as well.” He was almost snarling at her, his hands balled into fists.

“The Brotherhood is going to run itself into the ground,” Quinn said, too tired to dance around the matter anymore. “It’s unsustainable. I told him about Rachel to prove a point. Maxson needs to change. The Brotherhood needs to change. If it doesn’t, it will die.”

Carson didn’t answer, taking in quick, ragged breaths that made his chest appear to spasm. Quinn bit her lip and then sighed.

“I’m leaving, Carson. And I won’t be coming back.”

Carson looked up at her, blinking slowly, his mouth open. “You’re…leaving?”

Quinn nodded. “But...if you’re scared…” She fidgeted. “I can wait until you’re better, and then you can leave with me. You and Kapraski. Sanctuary isn’t like the place where you were born. No one will judge you for who you are.”

There was a stab of guilt within her as she offered out the one thing she’d denied Josh. But she knew Carson, at least, was safe. And Kapraski hadn’t shown animosity to Nick when they’d met. He was safe too.

Carson blinked again, and turned his head from her to stare around Cade’s office. Quinn knew his only love for the place was the community he felt. The acceptance. He could get that just as much in Sanctuary. Quinn thought he might jump at the chance. She was wrong.

“No,” he said, blinking quickly now, his eyes shining bright. “No. I can’t do that to Tom.”

“But he can come with you,” Quinn replied, feeling confused now.

“It’s not that, he…” Carson’s face scrunched in despair. “Tom needs to fly, to pilot a vertibird again one day. It’s the only thing keeping him going. If we leave, he loses that for good. I won’t take it from him.”

“But you said you were worried that—”

“I’m angry you didn’t think things through.” His face hardened again. “You took a big risk telling the Elder what happened. But that wouldn’t push me enough to leave.”

“Even if it got you killed?”

“Dying isn’t too much of a burden.” He raised an eyebrow at the look on her face. “I’m not suicidal or anything. I want to live, but...well, I wouldn’t _know_ I was dead either. Tom would be upset, but he’d get over it. Move on.” Carson’s brow creased. “Tom is happiest in the sky. I want him to be happy. And I want you to be safe. I don’t really care what happens to me past that.”

Quinn wondered how she could have ever doubted his sincerity. She slid from the desk as he stretched his hand out to her and locked her fingers through his. The weight of her decision was finally taking its toll. She would _never_ see Carson again. Never laugh or joke with him, cry on his shoulder, or console him in turn. Never…

The two of them were suddenly hugging, though Quinn had no recollection of who started it. She arched her back up, trying to avoid pressing on his wounded chest, only for Carson to drag her close. He grunted with pain, but dug his fingers into her arms as she tried to pull away. Quinn understood. The last one should _mean_ something, no matter how much it hurt.

Eventually, they broke apart, both wiping at their eyes.

“Don’t get yourself skewered,” Quinn said, trying to smile.

“And don’t let yourself get shot,” Carson countered, struggling to keep his tone playful. “I won’t be able to drag you out again.”

“I know.”

There seemed nothing else to say that wouldn’t prolong the parting. Quinn took his hand, gave his fingers a final squeeze, and left.

* * *

It was almost dusk by the time Quinn arrived at the Slog. Danse heard her before he saw her, exiting her power armour with a grating clunk and cheerfully greeting Wiseman. Danse drained his Nuka-Cola, setting it down next to the pile of empty bottles, and slowly got to his feet. He had been sitting outside on the ground, back to the wall, basking in the sun. Numb.

Quinn wrapped her arms around him, planting a kiss on his lips, and Danse tried to force some enthusiasm into the embrace. When they broke apart, she frowned at him.

“Everything okay?” Quinn asked, touching his cheek. “How did the talk with Sarah go?”

“It...it didn’t.” Danse dropped his gaze. “She left the Slog months ago.”

“Left?” Her worry was clear. “But she’s only a kid!” Quinn looked over her shoulder to where Wiseman lingered. “You let her go?”

“No, we—” Wiseman began.

“She went with Arlen Glass in the middle of the night,” Danse interrupted, and Quinn turned sharply to face him again. “Or that’s what everyone suspects. No one actually saw them.”

“Arlen was always close with Sarah,” Wiseman said with a shrug. “And after Sarah’s dad got dragged away by the mutants…” He heaved a great sigh. “Arlen became like a father to her. Almost inseparable. But then he started playing this tape, over and over again, with a young girl talking on it. A week later, he was gone. And Sarah with him.”

Quinn didn’t seem to be listening, staring instead at Danse. Danse could barely look at her, barely think. The one thing he’d promised to Marguerie—to speak to Sarah, to protect her—and he’d failed almost immediately. He had broken his word.

Quinn apparently read his mind. She put her arms around his neck pulled him down so that his chin rested where her neck met her shoulder. Danse closed his eyes. She didn’t need to speak to tell him it wasn’t his fault. He could feel it in how tight she held him.

They didn’t stay long after that. Wiseman tried to convince them otherwise, but the place felt like a bitter reminder of how fruitless Danse’s actions had been. Marguerie would be sneering if she could see him now.

At Quinn’s insistence, they made their way to the old bunker to collect the last of Danse’s things. Surprisingly enough, the place hadn’t been looted, but he found himself somewhat detached from the items that had been so dear to him not that long ago. He glared at the Brotherhood flag hung on the wall, and then walked past it, calmly picking up the chipped shot glass and the book Quinn had given him.

His Brotherhood armour stood not too far away, side by side with the set Quinn and the others helped him acquire. He studied it, a pang in his chest. Despite everything that had happened, Danse still felt drawn to it, to the memories lingering in the steel. Now he knew what he was, this armour had been his longest, most faithful companion.

He jumped as Quinn touched his arm.

“Take it all with you,” she said quietly, nodding from his armour to the tattered flag. “Even if you’re feeling bitter. You can decide later whether you want to keep them.”

“I can only choose one set,” Danse said, his eyes still fixed on the Brotherhood armour.

“We’ll come back for the other later.”

Her words made sense, but he didn’t want to return to this bunker ever again. Not unless he had to. It was a dank, gloomy place that stunk of decay, and woven deep into his now distant grief of being a synth. Being back here was making him ache with despair. Danse twitched his nose, wrestling for another topic. “What happened on the Prydwen?”

Quinn suddenly looked anguished herself. In a monotone, she told him of Carson and Maxson, and everything in-between. Danse wasn’t surprised she was truthful with Maxson—he even felt a twinge of pride at her honesty, but it was quickly wiped away as she described the struggle that ensued. “He grabbed you?”

Quinn shrugged, reaching up to unpin the flag from the wall. “It’s no big deal. I tried to punch him first.”

But the sleeve of her jacket slipped down, revealing darkening bruises in the shape of fingers on her wrist. Danse snarled and strode over to Quinn, ignoring her look of alarm as he took hold of her as firmly as he dared and tugged the sleeve down more. He stared at the marks for a second, blood pounding through his ears, and then said, “Maxson did this?”

The tremor in Danse’s voice was all too clear. Quinn bit her lip as their eyes met, and then gave a small nod. “Please, don’t do anything. He was only restraining me.”

Danse let go of her, breathing hard. He didn’t know why it made him so angry. Quinn was right—she _had_ hit first, and in any other situation, Maxson’s response would be justified.

But he’d _hurt Quinn._

Danse turned to the flag on the wall, still pinned in place. In one sharp movement, he tore it down, throwing it to the floor.

“Danse!” Quinn moved in front of him, her eyes wide. “There’s no point getting upset over something so small! Maxson’s an asshole. Just let it be.”

“You’re one to talk,” Danse retorted, clenching and unclenching his fists. He needed to regain his composure, and he was _trying,_ but… “You tried to hit the man because he insulted me!”

Quinn smiled and caressed his cheek. “Then we’re as bad as each other.”

Her touch was like a sedative. The rage drained away at once, replaced by a dull warmth. She wanted him to be calm. He would be calm. Danse exhaled heavily and nodded, placing his hand over hers. Then he gently tugged her arm away and kissed each of the bruises, with slow, careful deliberateness. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Of course I’m alright.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his nose. “It’s just Maxson. He doesn’t matter.”

“No. He doesn’t.” The words felt foreign in Danse’s mouth, but he meant them.

They stood in silence for a few moments, and then resumed packing Danse’s things, stacking them in a little pile to put in the power armour of his choosing. Danse didn’t bother to pick the Brotherhood flag off the floor.

“Oh, by the way,” Quinn said as they worked, “I spoke to Joshua Cooper earlier: Vivian and Stephen’s son.”

Danse looked up at her. Her tone suggested she had been sitting on this information for a while, waiting for the right time to tell him. She busied herself around the workbench, avoiding his eye, though apparently without really moving anything.

“He...he wanted to come with me,” she said. “Hates being on the ship. Hates being with his aunt. Begged me to take him away from the Brotherhood.”

Danse frowned. “Why isn’t he here then?”

Quinn glanced at him. “I thought it was obvious. He knows you’re a synth. What if he reacts badly to it? Tries to leave?”

“Has he ever shown any anti-synth sentiment?”

“No,” Quinn said quickly, an odd expression her face. She straightened up, her brow furrowed. “And his parents never did, either. Vivian said you didn’t deserve what you got. That you were a good man.”

Danse blinked. Viv, on his side? But that was neither here nor there. They were talking about Josh. He shook his head and said, “Then I repeat my question. _Why isn’t he here?”_

“Well...I’m worried about how Charlie might react to it. He’s already feeling neglected.”

“Charlie might not like it at first,” Danse admitted, “or he might find Josh good company. We don’t know. I don’t think such a small uncertainty is worth leaving Josh behind.”

“Charlie’s happiness isn’t a small uncertainty,” she snapped.

“You know what I meant,” Danse replied, not rising to her ire. What she was saying made sense, but this was Viv and Stephen’s son. If Danse had the opportunity to make a difference...

“I just…” Quinn hesitated. “Even without the issue of Charlie, is bringing Josh home too risky?”

Danse considered this. Sarah surfaced in his mind, far beyond his reach. Maxson, and what he had become right under Danse’s nose. Stephen and Vivian, his old friends, abandoned by him after Cutler’s death. Each indirect failure an old, painful scar. He wouldn’t add another one.

“No,” Danse said truthfully. “It’s not too risky.”

It was as if Quinn had been waiting on a signal. She tore across the room without a second thought, clambering into her armour.

“Wait, where are you going?” Danse asked, bewildered.

“To get Josh, if I can.” The armour sealed itself, and Quinn jogged across the room, picking her rifle off the table. “I’ll need Maxson’s help.”

The idea of her going back to Maxson filled him with dread. Maxson wasn’t known for his patience over blatant insubordination, and Quinn was the posterchild for defiance. To go back now could provoke him into something rash. Danse had the fleeting urge to stop her, until she turned, her helmet under her arm, and he saw the expression on her face.

_Permission,_ Danse realised. _She was asking for permission._

Intentionally or not, he’d just given it her. Now only a second apocalypse would stop Quinn returning to the Prydwen. Danse stayed silent as she put her helmet on and checked over her rifle. His heart was racing. They’d escaped, and now she was going _back._

But before she headed towards the elevator, she turned to him, and Danse’s breath caught in his throat.

“Thank you,” she said, tapping her fingers on her rifle. “For not telling me to play it safe and leave him behind.”

Danse nodded, biting his tongue. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Quinn made a noise as if she was going to say something else, but then thought better of it. She marched over to the elevator, stepped inside, and disappeared from sight. The sound of grinding metal slowly faded, leaving Danse alone. He turned on the spot, the cold biting him, the dim lighting making his headache. He felt as lost as the day he’d learned he was a synth, alone and unsure what to do.

Like an old friend, the bunker enveloped him. It was as if he’d never left.

* * *

“Sir!”

Quinn nearly fell at Maxson’s feet as she skidded to a halt, her boots slipping on the metal floor. Her armour had been left on the outer decks. Maxson looked slowly over his shoulder, feet rooted to the spot, and glared at her.

“Sir now, is it?” Maxson said coldly. He looked back out of the office window, a drink in his hand. “Get out.”

“Please.” Quinn paused, trying to catch her breath. “It’s important. You know I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Maxson raised his glass, sipped from it, and then spoke to the window. “True.”

Silence.

“I watched you return,” he said eventually, his voice flat. “And wondered what would drag you back before you’d ever truly left.”

Quinn didn’t reply, her ragged breaths heavy in the quiet. She began breathing through her nose instead, trying not to disturb the tension in the air.

Maxson turned sharply around, nodding to his guards. “Knight-Sergeants. Dismissed.”

The guards saluted and obeyed without question, their clanging, armoured footsteps quickly fading away. Maxson waited until the suffocating silence returned before speaking. He looked at her in disgust. “What do you want?”

His tone was curt and crisp, sharpened with dislike and pointed at her throat.

Quinn did not break eye contact. “Do you remember Field Scribe Cooper and Knight-Sergeant Cooper?”

“Yes.”

“Their son, Joshua...he asked to go with me. I wondered if...”

“No.”

The word hit her like a bullet. “But, sir, if he wants to go with me —”

_“No.”_ As Maxson whipped around to face her, he set down his glass so carelessly it spun straight off the edge of the table. Dregs of spirit splashed all over his boots as the glass shattered on the floor, but Maxson ignored it. “You will not take a single child off this ship. He belongs with his family.”

“His family is dead,” Quinn shot back, tensing up herself. “He can’t stand his aunt, and from what I can gather, she’s in no fit state to be looking after the boy in the first place.”

“We are a brotherhood in more than name. _We_ will look after him.”

“The same way Rachel was looked after?”

“By the tone of Knight-Captain Cade’s report, Knight-Sergeant Marguerie had a penchant for bending others to her will.” Maxson gave a slight shake of his head. “Even if Cade wrongly blames himself.”

All at once, the tension left Quinn. There was something in the way he spoke, the way he held himself—like a yao guai defending its cubs. She knew he cared about the people on the Prydwen, but it struck her she’d never grasped just how _much._

She stared at Maxson, and he stared back, until slowly, almost reluctantly, he began to relax too.

“The boy stays here,” Maxson said firmly. “He’s lost too much already. To take him away from all he’s known, after losing his parents so soon—it will...he…” Maxson broke eye contact as his voice wavered, and his lips parted around an unspoken word. Then he closed his mouth again and fixed his gaze at the broken glass on the floor.

“It’s not the same as you,” Quinn said gently, and Maxson’s head jerked up in her direction. “He’s miserable here. He _wants_ to go with me. All he’s ever experienced is military procedures and war. He’s lost both of his parents to something he doesn’t understand—something I can’t explain. Not to a ten year old boy. I doubt you understood much of what was happening at his age either.”

Maxson swallowed, pale now. Slowly, he shook his head.

Quinn took a deep breath. “Josh deserves a chance of a normal childhood. Let me take him.”

Maxson’s brow furrowed, but this time he didn’t look away. “He’s been raised by our ideals. If he sees Danse—”

Quinn bit back a grin. “His mother wasn’t as strict on synths as she was supposed to be. She said as much to me when she thought Danse had been executed. I think Josh will be the same. But I’ll talk to him. And if I think he’s...” She bit her lip. “...too Brotherhood, then I’ll leave him in your care.”

Maxson shut his eyes, as if in pain. When he opened them again, though, they were sharp and piercing—his usual glare. “You risked a great deal today to place your trust in me. It’s time I returned the favour. You have my permission to take Squire Cooper, on the condition he is willing to go, and that you believe he will be happy and...and safe.”

Quinn smiled, relief flooding through her. “Thank you, sir.”

Maxson turned back to the window.

“Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!
> 
> Apologies for the huge unplanned almost two month gap for this fic. The Manchester bombing happened, which was in my general part of the country, which meant work and other related stuff got busy for me, as everything got affected in that area tbh. Then I went to Normandy to take part in the memorial D-Day services over there. Now I’m in Texas, where I’ve finally had time to write.
> 
> I decided to finish up the last few chapters of BNC. They are all written out and beta’d, so with any luck I’ll be releasing them each week without any disruptions. I will be announcing what I intend to do in regards to other writing plans closer to the final chapter.
> 
> It's good to be back! I missed you all, and I hope you enjoy the ending of my long ass story. :)


	72. Family Ties

Michelle Cooper was a mess. She lay curled up in a bunk at the top of the ship, thin and unwashed, her hair greasy and unkempt. Her face was pale, her eyes blank and unseeing, staring past Quinn, who was crouched down next to her.

“Did you hear what I said?” Quinn asked, giving Michelle’s shoulder a little shake.

Michelle flinched and snapped her gaze to Quinn, blinking slowly. “What?”

Quinn bit her lip. She had avoided going to Cade to ask about Michelle’s condition, because she didn’t want another prolonged goodbye with Carson. Everything that needed to be said had been said. Quinn couldn’t do it again. But Michelle was clearly in a bad way. Quinn had heard the rumours, how she’d been taken off active duty and given time to recuperate, to no effect. Instead, Michelle was deteriorating.

“Josh,” Quinn repeated gently. “I’m leaving to do work in the Commonwealth. Josh asked to go with me. If he went with me, it would be unlikely you’d see him again. I know this is a hard thing for me to ask you, but Josh wants it, and I think in the long run—”

“Take him.”

Quinn stopped. She gawped at Michelle Cooper, the speech she’d prepared to convince Michelle to let Josh go collapsing to dust. There was a long silence while Quinn tried to get a hold of herself. Michelle Cooper returned to staring at the wall.

Eventually, in a strangled voice, Quinn managed to say, “You’ll never see him again, Michelle. Are you sure?”

“I can’t look after him,” Michelle replied, not bothering to meet Quinn’s eye again. “I can’t even look after myself. It’s for the best.”

Quinn had expected more of a fight. Now she hadn’t got it, she was at a loss what to do. She studied Michelle for a moment and then said, “Do you want to say goodbye to him?”

“No.”

Anger rushed through Quinn like wildfire, and it took everything she had to hold her tongue. Instead, she gave a nod she was sure Michelle couldn’t see, stood up, and left. Quinn wasn’t going to waste her time on such a pathetic, selfish—

She breathed hard through her nose as she stomped through the ship, her mind racing. How could anyone be so disinterested in a child? Even grieving, Michelle still had a responsibility to Josh, still had to set the example and keep herself together.

The look on Josh’s face when he’d pleaded with Quinn to take him with her surfaced in her thoughts, and she felt a stab of guilt. The desperation, begging her for an escape. The despair when she said no. She’d had no idea. No idea it was this _bad._

The disgust coursing through her was near overwhelming. She just couldn’t understand how little Michelle cared for Josh. He was reliant on her for love and support, and instead she just moped in her bed, with no thought for anyone but herself.

As Quinn seethed, she slowly became aware that her anger wasn’t entirely directed at Michelle. Sure, she was furious with Michelle, but there was something else too. It needled at her, scratching her with guilty memories until the wounds bled with self-loathing.

This could have been her. It nearly _had_ been her. This was what Charlie faced that night, when she’d drank herself into oblivion. Scared enough to traverse a dark and dangerous wasteland for help. Scared enough to reach out for Danse.

Never again. _Never again._

Danse had saved her. Saved them both. He was everything she wasn’t: calm and controlled. Thoughtful. Responsible. He really was her better half, brought out the best she could be. She loved him.

Quinn swore there and then to remind him of this fact when they were reunited. She didn’t tell him enough.

For now, though, there were more important, pressing things to deal with. It didn’t take her long to locate Josh, questioning the staff on the ship, as well as the other squires. He was in his room.

This was news to Quinn, who assumed that the Coopers slept in the open bunk space with the rest of the soldiers. But as it turned out, only Michelle lived in the shared bunks. Josh lived in a ‘family room,’ as had his parents when they’d been alive. The idea of three or more people being crammed into one small living space while the officers had their own private accommodation annoyed Quinn a little, but she decided not to dwell on it. Soon it would no longer concern her. At least they’d let Josh keep the room for the time being.

She knocked on the door and heard the sound of scuffling from within, followed by light footsteps. The door opened and Josh peered around the edge, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Can I come in?” Quinn asked.

“No.” He went to shut the door again, but Quinn jammed her foot in the gap. She heard him snarl and lean on the door, with little effect.

“Go away!” he grunted, opening the door and slamming it on her foot repeatedly. “Just...go away!”

“Squire Cooper!” Quinn snapped, and despite himself, Josh stood to attention.

He blinked, surprised at himself, and then glared at her. _“What?”_

“I have some questions for you. On your mother and father’s lives, I need you to answer them truthfully.”

Josh’s face paled, before slowly tinging green at the mention of his parents. “What kind of questions?”

“I’d rather talk in private. But whatever you answer, I’m not going to tell anyone else. This will stay between us. I promise. Now can I come in?”

His face darkened, but after a second he stood back in a silent invitation. She strode inside, her eyes trailing around the room. There were three beds, two of them pushed together, and another in the corner. The decor was sparse, one peeling Fancy Lads snack cakes poster on the wall, and a bookcase crammed with medical journals and old, classic novels. Next to the makeshift double bed stood a gleaming rifle—well cared for, but clearly old. Quinn wondered if it still worked.

“My mom’s,” Josh said sullenly, walking to the double bed and standing in front of it, as if trying to shield it from Quinn’s eyes. “My dad gave it her when they first met. She never wanted to take it out but always cleaned it.” He cast his eyes to the floor.

Quinn kept her distance. She was already intruding on a sacred place, and she didn’t want to impose any more than she had to. But it could all be worth it with some care and a bit of luck. Quinn took a deep breath. “How do you feel about synths?”

“Weapons of the Institute that will cause the destruction of humanity,” Josh said at once. His speedy reply betrayed the rehearsal behind the statement.

Quinn folded her arms, glaring at Josh until he reddened and dropped his gaze. She stared at him a little longer, and then said, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t _lie_ to me, Josh. I know how your mother felt about synths, and it wasn’t that.” Quinn wasn’t entirely sure if this was true—after all, Vivian Cooper had only ever defended Danse to Quinn—but the tone of their last conversation suggested she’d never seemed particularly threatened by synths. Quinn was banking everything on this assumption.

There was a long beat of silence, and then Josh shrugged. “I don’t really see anything wrong with them. My mom said they can’t help how they’re made. My dad used to look mad when she said that, until...until Paladin Danse died.”

Quinn’s stomach turned. “What happened when Paladin Danse died?”

Josh’s face crumpled, and she remembered that he used to idolise Danse. Josh bit his lip before saying, “Mom told me that Paladin Danse was a good man, even if he was a synth. She didn’t think he was a traitor. She said he probably didn’t know.”

“What did your dad say about that?”

“He...he didn’t say anything. But he didn’t look angry, either. Just sad. I think he agreed with mom but didn’t want to talk about it.”

Quinn’s heart suddenly felt light. This was what she had been hoping for. Maybe not a perfect opinion, but the foundations for acceptance. Vivian and Stephen did right by their son, it seemed. But she had one more question.

“How do you feel about ghouls?”

Josh scowled. “They’re gross. And dangerous.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, like my mom said, they can go feral. Eat you! I mean, I know synths kill people too, but the Institute is gone now, so they can decide what they want to do. But ghouls will always be like that. They’re monsters.”

Well, she was never going to get everything she hoped for. But it was more important that Josh tolerate synths, what with Charlie and Danse. And if Danse himself could learn to accept ghouls over time, then Josh could too. Adults were far more stubborn over bad habits and beliefs than children.

“Thank you for being honest with me, Josh,” Quinn said, straightening up.

Josh looked surly again. “Fine. Can you go now?”

“Sure,” Quinn said. But as she turned to leave, she glanced over her shoulder and added, “Or...you can come with me.”

Josh drew in an audible breath, his mouth slightly open. “What?”

“I spoke to your Aunt Michelle and Elder Maxson, and they both said if you want, you can come with me.”

“Don’t,” he whispered, going pale again. “Don’t prank me. This isn’t funny.”

Quinn smiled. “No prank. We can leave as soon as you pack your things.”

Josh stood as still as a statue, staring at her. His bottom lip began to tremble, and then suddenly he burst into tears. He ran to her, throwing himself at her. Quinn crouched down and held him tight.

“Go on,” she said into his ear when he eventually calmed down a little. “Go get your stuff.”

Josh broke away from her and nodded, wiping fruitlessly at his streaming eyes, before picking his mother’s rifle up and setting it carefully on his bed. Then he got onto the floor, scrambling under the frame and pulling out a box.

Quinn stood in silence for a while, watching Josh collect the little he owned. Whatever Danse said, this was still a risky thing to do. There were so many things that could go wrong. A high potential for her to lose everything. But like Danse insisted all those months ago, if Quinn could change her decision, would she? If the answer was ‘no,’ then she had done the right thing.

The look on Josh’s face was all she needed. He was coming home with her.

* * *

Danse picked up the Brotherhood flag off the floor, letting the fabric run through his fingers. He’d left it until the very end, avoiding the moment where he’d inevitably regret his disrespect towards it.

_Brotherhood, through and through._

It didn’t matter how much he hated their methods, their betrayal of him, or the consequences of their dogged mantra...he was Brotherhood. He was a soldier. And he still cared about them.

Danse sighed and closed his eyes, kneading his forehead with fists still clenched around the flag. This was why he’d sent an encrypted message to Haylen so she could stay in contact with him. Why he’d packed up everything into his Brotherhood armour. He hoped Quinn would forgive him for leaving the new set behind. There were too many memories. Too much blood and pain and friendship trapped in the old, rusted plating.

Thinking of Quinn was sombering, though, and slowly he lowered his hands, letting the flag trail at his feet. Was Quinn alright? When would she be back?

As if on cue, the elevator rumbled to life. Danse quickly stashed away the flag in the compartment of his armour and clambered inside, before picking up his rifle. With any luck, it would be Quinn. But if not…

To his great relief, it _was_ Quinn. And she had a companion with her.

Joshua Cooper stopped dead as he saw Danse, gripping at Quinn’s arm. Even from this distance, Danse could see the boy’s knuckles had gone white. His eyes were wide and fearful, and he stared up at Danse with great trepidation.

Danse set down his weapon on the nearby table and got out of his armour, trying to set Josh’s mind at ease. It seemed to work, and Josh slowly let go of Quinn’s arm, though he still looked apprehensive. Josh glanced at Quinn, who gave a small smile and gently pushed him forward.

“I...I knew your parents,” Danse said gruffly. “Worked with both of them for years. They were fine people. I’m...I’m sorry for your loss.”

Josh nodded, his bottom lip trembling. But then he squeezed his fists and any sign of upset disappeared. “My mom didn’t think you were a traitor. She said you were too nice. Too…” Josh fumbled for the word, “noble. That you wouldn’t betray any of us.”

“I didn’t,” replied Danse, the feeling of gratitude towards Vivian Cooper making him near dizzy. “I didn’t know what I was, and when I found out…” He shot Quinn a nervous glance. “I tried to make sure I was executed for it. Quinn convinced me otherwise. And I’ve kept my distance ever since, to make sure I didn’t pose a threat to the Brotherhood again.”

Josh considered this. “The Institute is gone, right? That means you’re safe. Because they aren’t there to try and control you anymore.”

Danse looked pained, but he nodded. “That’s right. I’m free.”

Josh raised his eyebrows at Quinn. “Is this why you didn’t want me with you, ma’am?”

Quinn went red. “Yeah. I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

Josh nodded solemnly. “Sensible.” He shifted his backpack and smiled. “But I’m glad you decided to trust me. Let’s go.” He stared up expectantly at them. No questions asked. No concerns. He talked like a soldier but accepted like a child.

Quinn and Danse looked at each other.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” she said, smiling at him.

“Quinn, wait, I…” The guilt was needling Danse now, so he could barely breathe. “I’m taking Brotherhood armour with me. I can’t leave it behind. I just…”

“Too many memories?” Quinn asked, and he nodded. “I thought you might. No big deal.”

Danse blinked at her. Didn’t she understand? “But you risked your life to get me the new set.”

“We can come back for it another day.”

“But what if it’s stolen?” His voice sounded childish, persistent. Danse cringed a little, but she clearly wasn’t _getting it._ She needed to know exactly what he was giving up, and reprimand him in turn for treating her gift so…

His thoughts cut short as Quinn got out of her own set of armour, emptied its contents, and walked across the room with her arms full. She approached Danse’s _X-01_ series, packed it up with her things, and then climbed inside. Danse stared at her.

“Your armour is important to you,” she said, her voice sharp behind the helmet’s sound filter. She strode over to him and patted him on the shoulder, almost knocking him over in the process. “Not enough space for all three of us at once. We’ll meet you up top.”

She held out her metal plated hand to Josh, who frowned. “I’m not a baby, ma’am.”

Quinn laughed. “Fair enough.” She gestured for him to follow, and they walked into the elevator together.

The doors closed.

 _I love her,_ Danse thought dimly to himself, overwhelmed by her gesture. She acted as if it was an easy decision—and maybe it was for her—but Danse could barely think for his gratitude.

_I love her. I should tell her more often._

* * *

The scowl on Charlie’s face spoke volumes. He sat on the sofa, surrounded by comics, eyeing Josh with blatant dislike.

Josh looked equally wary. Quinn and Danse had explained to him on the way that Charlie was a synth. This seemed to unsettle Josh, but he didn’t comment on it. Now he was staring at Charlie like he was a bomb about to go off. Quinn didn’t blame him. Josh could quickly adjust to seeing Danse again, because he knew him, and because his parents had been open minded. But Charlie was an unknown quantity: uncertain...unsafe.

“Danse, why don’t you get Josh settled?” Quinn said pointedly. Danse nodded and ushered Josh into the next room.

“Why is _he_ here?” Charlie hissed at once, in a tone that suggested highest treason. Quinn knew what he was thinking. She had brought another child into their home. _Replaced him._ This needed to be stopped before it truly got started.

“His name is Josh and he’s staying with us from now on,” Quinn said, before adding forcefully, _“I don’t want to hear it!”_ as Charlie made to argue with her again.

She crouched down next to him and waited until he met her eye. He looked a mixture of furious and upset. She kept her voice low as she said, “Honey, you are my son. Nothing will change that. But I couldn’t leave Josh behind. His parents were murdered...and it was my fault.”

“How was it your fault?”

“I didn’t get to the fight in time. I let people down.”

“So you’re feeling guilty?”

Quinn winced. Nothing like the honesty of a child. “Yes. I am. But I’m also responsible for him. If his parents weren’t dead, he’d have somewhere to go. Family to be with. The least I can do is try to look after him, make sure he’s okay. But I need your help to do that.”

Charlie fidgeted. “Does he know I’m a synth?”

Quinn nodded. “He knows, and I think he’s a bit nervous. You’re the second synth he’s ever met, and…” An idea hit her, and she quickly seized it. “And you need to show him that synths are just normal people. That’s the only way things are going to change, by showing other people that synths are nothing to be scared of.”

“I’m just a kid,” Charlie said with a frown. “Why do I have to do this?”

“Because…” Quinn sighed. It was a good question, and the answer was unfair. “Because kid or not, _you are a synth._ You are always going to have to defend yourself against people that don’t know any better. Danse is the same. So where better to start than with someone your own age? You never know—you might make a friend.”

“I don’t want a friend,” Charlie replied moodily, folding his arms. “I don’t need a friend.”

“But Josh does. So please try. For me?”

Charlie pouted.

Quinn decided that was as good as she was going to get. She kissed Charlie on the head and stood up. She could talk about it again later. For now, better to see how Josh was getting on.

Danse passed her in the corridor, mumbling something about sleeping arrangements and disappeared out of sight. Quinn walked into Charlie’s room to find Josh sitting cross-legged on the floor, slowly unpacking his things.

There wasn’t a lot. A few pieces of uniform—some of which Quinn suspected had belonged to his parents, judging by the size—a couple of books, scrap that had been cobbled together into little statues, a rolled up poster, and a very battered action figure with a missing arm. Josh looked up as Quinn entered, and quickly stowed away the toy.

Quinn smiled. “You’re allowed toys here, Josh.”

“Oh.” Josh pulled out the toy, which Quinn recognised as Grognak the Barbarian, and set it down on the floor. “We were allowed them, but…”

“The grown-ups would tut about it?”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well I won’t tut about it.” Quinn indicated to the stacks of comic books and toys she’d managed to salvage for Charlie. “You’re a kid.”

Josh’s eyes went wide. “Are they all his?”

“Yeah,” said a high voice behind them. Quinn turned to see Charlie hovering in the doorway. “What, never seen a comic before?”

Josh shrank away a little and shook his head. “No. Not this many.”

“They didn't keep comics on the ship?” Charlie edged closer, frowning.

“Some of soldiers kept them, and Proctor Quinlan had a lot. But the squires…” Josh shrugged. “Elder Maxson selected us so we could learn. Playing was a bad thing. A distraction of duty.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “That's stupid.” He walked past Josh, eyeing the Grognak figurine on the floor, and began sifting through his precious collection. He unearthed several Grognak issues and tossed them to Josh. “Here.”

Josh picked them up, his mouth falling open in shock. _“Wow!”_

“Not to keep,” Charlie said quickly, shooting Quinn a nervous look. “Mr. MacCready gave me them. But you can borrow them for a while.”

Josh stared at Charlie like he was a god descending from the heavens. Charlie blinked after a few seconds of awed silence, and then turned slightly red, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. He pointed to a colourful issue with a scantily-clad woman on the front— _Why am I letting him read these things again?_ Quinn wondered—and said, “Start with that one: _The Legend of the She-Squid._ It’s the earliest issue I have.”

Josh nodded and opened it, but his brow furrowed almost instantly. “Wait, who is _The Vixen?”_

“Oh, that’s one of Grognak’s nemy—nemming—nemma—” Charlie peered at the front page of the comic, and then carefully said, _“Nemeses._ I think that means they fight each other and stuff. But he has a crush on her too. They kiss sometimes.”

Both boys pulled a face, caught each other’s eye, and then giggled. Charlie walked over, sat down next to Josh, and picked up another comic, advising Josh read that one after he was done with the She-Squid adventure.

Quinn left them to it. They didn’t even look up as she slipped away. She made her way back towards the living room, feeling a bit more settled. With any luck, there wouldn’t be any more issues, aside from typical sibling squabbling.

As she came back into the main part of the house, Quinn noticed Danse had already begun to unpack things from his armour. The Brotherhood flag was hung carefully on the wall. Quinn smiled. He still had a lot of baggage to work through, and she’d be with him every step of the way.

As if on cue, Danse tottered back into the house with a grunt, lugging a bed behind him. Quinn ran over to help him get it through the door, and then set it down in the living room. Danse wiped his forehead, panting, and gave her a grateful smile.

There were light footsteps, and Charlie poked his head from the corridor. “What are you doing?”

“Bringing a bed in for Josh,” Danse huffed, leaning against it. “Not sure where to put it yet, though.”

Before Quinn could say anything, Charlie replied, “Oh right. Put it in my room. Then Josh can look at my comics without taking them anywhere.” He disappeared back down the corridor, and a moment later Quinn heard him say, _“So they took you on missions with them?”_

 _“Yeah,”_ Josh replied, his voice muffled by the walls. _“I’ve seen a super mutant up close. They’re really big.”_

_“Are super mutants like ghouls?”_

_“Kinda. They eat people too.”_

Well, they seemed to be getting along at any rate. Quinn let Danse catch his breath while she absent-mindedly looked about the room. Her eyes fell on the flag pinned to the wall for a few seconds, before she glanced back at Danse. He had noticed where she’d been staring, and was now scarlet.

“I’ll take it down if you want,” he blurted out, moving around the bed in such a rush he tripped over the frame and nearly fell over. Quinn held out her hand to stop him, her palm on his chest as she bit back a laugh.

She looked up at him, trailing her fingers from his chest to his neck, before finally resting it on his cheek. “It’s important to you,” she said, tracing his lips with her thumb, “so it stays.”

Danse made an odd noise in the back of his throat and suddenly pulled her close. The kiss was long and tender, the stress that had plagued them since the day they’d met falling away. Danse pressed his hand to the small of Quinn’s back, while she wrapped her arms around his neck, never wanting to break apart. But they did, and they stared into each other’s eyes, oblivious to all around them.

“I—” they both said at the same time, before fumbling apologies and urging the other to speak first.

Danse laughed and ran his free hand through her hair as he kissed her forehead. “I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Dragging me from rock bottom and making me see my own worth. Showing me I am capable of standing on my own two feet...and that there was a life after the Brotherhood.”

“Everything I helped you with, you deserved,” Quinn said, cupping his face with her palms as she kissed him again. “You make me a better person just by being yourself. Things aren’t so hard when you’re around.”

His cheeks grew hot at this, but he smiled all the same. “I love you.”

Quinn leaned against him and closed her eyes, smiling as Danse rested his chin on the top of her head. She snuggled into his chest and said, “I love you too.”

Danse squeezed her, but then they both looked up running footsteps came up the corridor, and Charlie and Josh ran into the room. Both boys halting, staring at Danse and Quinn, and then Charlie pulled a face.

“Ugh, Mom!” he exclaimed. “Dad! Gross!”

There was a long pause as Charlie’s words settled. Everyone looked from Danse to Charlie, both of them going scarlet.

“Um…” Charlie fidgeted, glancing between the two adults. “Do you mind if I call Mr. Danse that?”

Quinn and Danse looked at each other, and almost at once there was an unspoken understanding between them. Quinn turned back to Charlie, smiling. “If you’re comfortable with that, honey, then it’s fine with me.”

“And me,” Danse said, nodding.

Charlie looked delighted. “Cool!” He turned to Josh. “Come on. Let’s go play with Dogmeat.” He gestured to a beaming Josh, and the two boys ran from the house. Seconds later, their laughter and Dogmeat’s barks filled the air.

All Quinn’s worries about Charlie and Josh dissipated. She turned to Danse with a smile. “I think we’ll be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final ‘main’ chapter. Next week is the epilogue.
> 
> EDIT: I lied. Epilogue is now OUT.


	73. Peaceful Futures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I released chapter 72 on the 8th. Since I’ve posted this so close to the last chapter, I felt it was only fair to let you guys know there’s a chapter before this one that you might want to read.

“So what makes you think you’re suitable for this position?” Danse said, scribbling down a few sentences on his form. It was uncomfortably hot in his office, and Danse was tempted to close the interview now. He already knew the outcome. But he’d be damned if he put minor discomfort before proper procedure.

By the book. _Always_ by the book.

“As I said, sir, my dad is the best shot in Sanctuary.”

Danse looked up from his notes and raised his eyebrow. “I’ve known Robert almost twenty years now, and he _is_ a brilliant shot. But you aren’t your father. Tell me about _you,_ Duncan. Why should I be putting Sanctuary’s safety in your hands?”

Duncan went scarlet. Danse almost relented there and then, but MacCready had been very specific with his instructions.

_“Dunc’s more than capable, but he’s had it easy. Ridden on my reputation. One day I won’t be here, and then what? Make him work for it, Danse. It’ll do him some good.”_

Danse stayed silent and waited.

“W-well,” Duncan managed eventually, fidgeting under Danse’s desk. “I, uh…”

“Do you have a tutor?” Danse said, deciding to offer some kindness. “Have you won any competitions or been in any combat?”

“Oh yeah!” Duncan said at once, seizing the opportunity. “My dad taught me! Ever since I was a kid I could shoot! And I’ve every shooting competition in the settlement in the last five years! And—”

Danse let Duncan rattle off his many achievements, holding back a smile. He’d always intended to give this job to Duncan, had been leaning on MacCready for years to let his son leave his cleaning post and move onto the security team. But MacCready was adamant Duncan worked his way up first.

_“We all had to do it. It’s the only way he’ll learn.”_

Duncan paused to take in a breath, and Danse held up his hand. Duncan stopped, looking worried.

“I’ve heard enough,” Danse said, straightening up his papers and keeping a straight face. He leaned back in his chair and met Duncan’s eye. He hesitated, then said, “You’ve got the job.”

Duncan made a noise of shock, and a wide grin split across his face. “Really?”

Danse nodded, leaned forward, and held out his hand. As Duncan shook it vigorously, Danse said, “I want you at the barracks 5am sharp tomorrow so we can fit you up in a uniform.”

“Yes, sir,” Duncan said, getting to his feet as Danse did, still grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you, sir! Thank you so much! My dad’s gonna be so impressed!”

“Best go tell him quick then,” Danse replied, and smiled as Duncan nodded and hurried from the room. As soon as the office door shut behind Duncan, Danse walked over to the window shutter and cranked it open. Cool air seeped in, and he gave a sigh of relief. He didn’t like having it open when he was interviewing people. Everything in his office was a private affair.

_Some affairs more private than others,_ a mischievous voice said in his head, and he glanced at his desk with a guilty grin, thinking of Quinn’s last visit here. The memories made his heart beat faster, and suddenly he was eager to go home. Danse opened a button in his collar as he walked down the stairs, still lost in his thoughts. He wondered if Quinn would finish early today, but as he reached the door leading out of the building—mumbling some response or other to the guards acknowledging his departure—he remembered they were due to have dinner with Josh and Emily tonight, on top of everything else he still needed to prepare for work tomorrow. Weariness hit him like a ton of bricks.

_I’m not as young as I used to be._

If it wasn’t his back twinging every time he tried to lift something heavy, it was his knees aching during his morning run. He was still in top shape, and proud of that fact, but pride couldn’t stop the effects of age. At least he _was_ aging, though, unlike other synths. A blessing compared to Sturges, who only discovered the truth when it became apparent how young he still looked next to Preston.

Not that Preston cared. He helped Sturges through his identity crisis the same way Quinn helped Danse through his, so many years ago.

“Hey boss,” rasped Mordecai, a tough old ghoul who was a permanent fixture in the security team, “so am I fitting up body armour for the kid tomorrow or not?” Danse nodded, and Mordecai grinned. “You were always gonna—”

“Keep your voice down,” Danse said quietly, glancing around. “I don’t want to knock his confidence.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Mordecai motioned zipping his mouth shut.

Danse nodded, glad his friend had some tact. It was for this reason—and also because Mordecai could swing a bat like nobody’s business—he was Danse’s right hand man.

Danse walked on, responding to countless greetings that always accompanied his evening walk home. As head of security, he’d personally assessed each and every one of them before they’d been given a place in the city—ghoul, synth, and human alike. The result was that everyone knew his face.

It was a nice feeling, being known and respected, although it did add an extra half hour onto his journey wherever he was going.

He walked past the Sanctuary branch of the Valentine Detective Agency, the red, glowing sign just as tacky as Nick’s head office over in Diamond city. Danse squinted at the neon sign and grinned. Piper always complained about it whenever she visited, loudly grumbling to the homeless ghouls she often escorted to the city.

People from all walks of life flocked to Sanctuary these days. People wanting to make a fresh start. People who were outcast from their own settlements for not being ‘human’ enough, or for sympathising with the ‘others.’ People who were simply curious about the settlement open to everybody, and decided to stay.

Quinn had been careful, so careful from the beginning. All were welcome, but that would make Sanctuary a target. And yet, aside from a short-lived conflict with Diamond City, no one ever bothered them. Even the Brotherhood kept away, though Danse couldn’t understand why. After a few years, he stopped questioning it, but always kept himself and his men on guard.

The medical clinic came into view, conveniently down the road from Josh’s home. Josh’s tendency to abandon dinner or run out in the middle of the night sometimes caused bickering in his household, but nothing serious. Emily knew what Josh was like.

So did Danse—Josh was as stubborn as Vivian and Quinn combined, something Quinn seemed almost proud of, despite it causing numerous arguments throughout Josh’s childhood. When both Josh and Charlie had dug their heels in together, it was like a bomb being dropped on the house. Although Danse missed the boys when they eventually moved out, he did love the peace and quiet that came with their absence.

Finally, Danse reached his destination. He paused, listening to the muted voices inside, and then knocked on the front door. The voices stopped at once, and footsteps drew near. The door flew open, and a bear of a man stood in the doorway, with long auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and kind, crinkled eyes.

“Danse!” Josh exclaimed, dragging Danse into a tight hug. Danse hugged him back, smiling to himself. Josh had never called Quinn and Danse ‘Mom and Dad,’ and they had never pushed him.

Danse grinned up at his son as they broke apart, and turned to see Emily standing next to her husband. She smiled at Danse and kissed his cheek, before beckoning him into the house.

It was clean and tidy, as always. Emily’s work—any surface Josh went near inevitably ended up an explosion of doctor’s tools and patient notes, much to Quinn’s horror. Quinn herself was sitting in the antique armchair near the back wall, directly under the display plaque that held Vivian’s old rifle. Seeing the rifle always gave Danse a twinge of comfort and regret.

_Brotherhood through and through._

Quinn got to her feet as he approached and kissed him, resting her hand on the back of his neck. “How was your day? And how did Duncan do?”

“Fine,” Danse replied, dropping himself down onto the sofa in the centre of the room. “On both counts. He starts tomorrow.”

“Like there was gonna be any other outcome.” Charlie walked into the room carrying an armful of Nuka-Colas and wearing a smirk. He moved the bottles around and held one out to Danse. “Here, Dad. Glad to see Mom’s not working you too hard.”

Quinn settled down next to Danse with a roll of her eyes as he took the bottle, and accepted a drink of her own from Charlie. “Always the smartass.”

“Of course,” chipped in Josh before Charlie could answer. “Look who raised us—ow!” Josh was interrupted as Emily whacked him across the arm.

“Don’t speak to your mom like that!” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching as she gave him a forced glare.

“Thanks, Em,” Quinn said, not bothering to hide her smirk.

“No problem.” Emily turned back to Josh and pointed to the kitchen. “Go get dinner, _Darling.”_

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, pretending to be annoyed, before kissing her on the nose and smiling. He left the room as everyone made their way over to the table.

Emily was a fantastic cook—better than Quinn, though Danse would never tell her. Not that she’d disagree, but some things were better left unsaid. Danse ate his stew while everyone else chatted away. He didn’t really talk at meals, preferring to listen to the conversations of the others and join in only when he had something to say. It was a quirk his family accepted, and when they were at the dinner table, it was rare for someone to speak to Danse first.

Quinn and Emily discussed recipes, while Josh and Charlie went over the plans for the clinic. Thanks to Sturges’ tutelage, Charlie was a fine handyman in his own right, and often filled in for Sturges when he was busy. It meant Josh could get almost any addition he wanted for his building, turning the clinic into a place capable of housing a good chunk of the city all at once. With Quinn’s blessing, Josh employed more staff to help him run it, and eventually hired Emily.

Danse glanced at Emily and smiled. Young love. He remembered being that age, and finding the right person. His eyes trailed over to Quinn and he watched her for a little while. Age hadn’t dampened her fire, and she still looked as beautiful as ever. Aside from the wrinkles, the only real difference was the streaks of grey in her hair. Maybe she had changed more than that, but Danse knew he’d never see her any differently.

When everyone finished, Charlie and Josh cleared the plates away, Josh flapping down Emily’s help and insisting she stay seated. Danse raised an eyebrow at this. Normally Emily bit Josh’s head off at being told to sit down and be waited on, but instead, Emily sat. He caught Quinn’s eye, and she mirrored his surprised expression.

Josh came back into the room and handed out drinks to everyone. But instead of sitting down, Josh rocked back and forth on his heels, playing with the label of his bottle. Emily nudged him with her elbow, and he said, “Uh, I have an announcement to make.”

He stood there for a few seconds, getting redder with every passing moment, until Emily rolled her eyes and said, “I’m—”

“Emily’s pregnant!” Josh blurted out.

Stunned silence. Then Quinn jumped to her feet and shrieked, “Oh _congratulations!”_ She hugged Emily and peppered Josh with kisses, while Charlie leaned over the table and shook his hand. Danse did the same as Charlie walked over to Emily and kissed her on the cheek.

Josh still looked nervous, though. He coughed awkwardly and said, “I know I’ve never called you my parents, but…”

The room went quiet again. Charlie glanced from Josh to Quinn and Danse uncertainly, and Emily took hold of Josh’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Josh nodded, took a deep breath and said, “Well...you’re the closest thing I have to parents. And I’d love for you to be my baby’s grandparents, if...if you don’t mind.”

Danse blinked. “Josh,” he said incredulously, “you don’t even have to ask. It would be an honour.”

_“‘If you don’t mind,’”_ Quinn said with a snort, and hugged Josh tight. Danse saw Josh give Emily a look of relief over Quinn’s shoulder. Emily smiled back.

“Does this mean I get to be the cool uncle?” Charlie piped up, grinning.

“Only if you promise not to teach my kid how to make a gun from scratch,” Josh retorted, shaking his head.

“Well that’s _boring.”_

“I still remember what happened the first time you made a rifle.”

“I kept all my fingers, didn’t I?”

“Any names?” Danse asked loudly.

“Yes,” Emily said quickly, shooting Danse a grateful look. “Cade if they’re a boy, Yara if they’re a girl.”

“Not gonna name them after your mom or dad?” Charlie asked. Everyone looked from Josh to him, and both men went red. Charlie quickly said, “Sorry, I didn't think—you don't have to answer that.”

“It’s alright,” Josh said with a shrug, not looking at Quinn or Danse. “I just...it didn’t feel right.”

“I’m guessing ‘Cade’ after the Knight-Captain?” Danse said, trying to move the subject on. Josh had always been conflicted when it came to his parents and Quinn and Danse.

“Yeah.” Josh stared at his feet. “You know why.”

Danse did know why. He’d always thought that Josh would follow in Vivian’s footsteps, become a soldier or a security guard. Instead, as he hit his teenage years, he began studying medicine instead. One day, Danse asked why.

_“I remember what Cade did for my dad. And my mom. I'll never forget that.”_

Danse never forgot it either. He shook son’s hand again, gripping a little tighter this time “You’ll be a fantastic father. You’ll make your parents proud.”

“Thanks,” Josh said with a small smile, finally meeting his eye again.

“But more importantly,” Quinn said, eyeing Charlie shrewdly, “when are you bringing home a nice girl for me to meet?”

Charlie went from red to beetroot. “Mom, I’ve been busy. Sanctuary isn’t going to build itself.”

“Sturges can pick up some of the slack.”

“I have different projects than Sturges. Haven’t worked with him for years.” Charlie rolled his eyes. “You _know_ that.”

“Don’t you raise your eyebrows to heaven at me!”

Josh snickered. “Busted.”

Charlie punched him playfully in the arm. Danse smiled at his sons. Josh was a talented doctor, but none of Quinn’s ambitious plans for the city would have been possible without Charlie. Despite being grounded repeatedly as a child, mini-structures kept appearing in the living room, or Danse’s guns suddenly had new, mysterious ‘modifications.’ Finally, when Charlie tried to upgrade Danse’s _X-01_ helmet and broke it, Quinn shouted herself hoarse at her son, and then asked Sturges to train him and find a new outlet for his uncontrollable tinkering. The result was Sanctuary’s progress jumping ahead of schedule.

Now Charlie ran his own workshop, and spent most of his time designing new buildings and finding new ways to make every resource count. Sturges still did a majority of the repairs, but the two of them shared ideas, problems, and staff regularly, combining their strengths to keep the city going.

The laughter and talk continued, Josh bringing out a bottle of whisky to celebrate the occasion. Only he and Charlie drank, Emily looking on wistfully with a hand on her stomach while Quinn and Danse politely declined. Quinn drank one shot of Bowmore a year from her now dwindling bottle, around the date she first came into the Commonwealth. Other than that, both she and Danse stayed away from drink.

Finally, Charlie staggered out for some fresh air, and when he didn’t come back, Danse offered to check on him.

The night was balmy, the day’s heat still clinging to the air. The road was lit by the streetlights, but still dark enough that Danse had to squint. He spotted a figure sitting hunched over in the doorway to the school, and went over to investigate. It was Charlie, sitting with his head in his knees.

Had he passed out? As a family, they didn’t drink much—alcohol had been banned in their house until the boys reached twenty-one. Danse crouched down and gave Charlie’s shoulder a little shake, and he immediately looked up, his eyes unfocused.

Danse grinned. “Had enough?”

Charlie blinked up at Danse, and then stared at his hands in his lap. Danse felt the grin slip off his face. Something was wrong.

Ignoring the clicking of his joints and the pain in his back, Danse sat himself down next to Charlie. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Charlie swayed slightly where he sat, and then said in a slurred voice, “No, not nothing. Everything’s fucked up.”

It was rare for Charlie to swear, but Danse didn’t comment on it. Instead, he waited for Charlie to speak again.

Charlie glanced at his father, and then back to his hands. “I guess...I’m just wondering what I’m doing with my life. I’m nearly thirty, and I have nothing to show for it.”

Danse raised his eyebrows. “Nothing to show for it?” He gestured to the pre-war street lights Charlie had personally set up only two years ago, to the school he and Sturges constructed together. “What do you call all of this?”

Charlie shrugged. “That’s just work.”

“Important work.”

Charlie shrugged again in response.

Danse shifted in his seat and frowned. This wasn’t right. Charlie had always been happy and invested in his job, and took Quinn’s teasing about being single in his stride. Danse opened and closed his mouth, trying to find the words. “I don’t...you always—”

“Josh has a wife and a kid on the way. I have no one.”

_Ah._

“I know I can’t _have_ kids. I’ve accepted that. But still…” Charlie bowed his head, shutting his eyes.

Danse glanced over to the house. With any luck, the others would stay inside. He turned back to his son and clamped his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You can’t rush these things. Some people find the right person early on. Others, it takes years. A relationship isn’t the be-all and end-all, and it won’t always bring you happiness.”

Charlie didn’t reply.

_God damn it. Quinn is better at this than me,_ Danse thought. He tried again. “When I found your mother, I thought I was well into my thirties. She thinks she was at least twenty-nine. Just because Josh managed to convince his poor, unfortunate wife to marry him doesn’t mean you’re falling behind.”

This earned a laugh from Charlie, so Danse pressed on.

“And we were friends first. We both went through hell and back before we finally realised we were right for each other. I’d convinced myself that I didn’t deserve her, and she didn’t want to rush me.” Danse gave Charlie’s shoulder a squeeze. “You might have already met the right person, and you just don’t know it yet. Give it _time._ When you find them, you won’t care how long it took.” He paused. “As for children...I think we’re proof synths can raise a family just fine.”

Charlie looked up sharply, staring at Danse. Danse smiled at him. After a few seconds, Charlie’s gave a lopsided grin back. “Thanks, Dad.”

Danse nodded. “No problem.” Slowly, he got to his feet, wincing as his limbs clicked and ached again. He held his hand out to Charlie and pulled him to his feet.

Charlie staggered, nearly knocking them both over, and leaned on the school wall. “I think I should go lie down.”

“I think you should,” Danse replied, biting back a laugh. “Stay here. I’ll just tell your mother I’m taking you home.”

“I can walk—”

_“Stay here.”_

Charlie grumbled, but nodded, so Danse quickly ran across the road and stuck his head through Josh’s front door. Josh was snoring on the sofa, while Emily and Quinn were now talking about babies and pregnancy. Emily seemed nervous about the thought of mood swings and cravings. Danse quickly let them know where he was going, and returned to Charlie.

The journey was difficult, not helped by Charlie’s inability to walk straight, and also being half a head taller than Danse. Eventually, though, Danse managed to deposit Charlie through his front door. Charlie mumbled a thanks, and fell face first on his bed. Seconds later, he was asleep.

By the time Danse left the house, Quinn was waiting for him outside. He considered telling her about Charlie’s worries, but then decided against it. The conversation felt private, something Charlie might even be ashamed of. He could confide in his mother later, if he wanted to. Instead, Danse took Quinn’s hand, and they walked through the silent, deserted streets of Sanctuary all the way home.

When they reached it, they both stopped dead, staring at the front yard. Outside the house was a huge mound of dirt, the back end of a brahmin corpse sticking out of it.

“Oh for the love of…” Danse glared at Quinn. “That’s the third time this week! I’m not cleaning this up!”

He knew damn well he would be the one cleaning this up.

Quinn frowned and investigated the dirt pile, before shaking her head. “I think I need to do some more training with Spuds.”

“You _think?”_

Quinn kissed him on the cheek. “We can worry about it tomorrow.”

Danse eyed the half-buried brahmin corpse with apprehension, wondering how long it would take for it to smell, and then followed Quinn inside.

“I can’t believe Josh and Emily are going to have a baby! I’m so happy for them,” Quinn said when they reached their bedroom. “And I’m going to be a grandmother. Good _god.”_

Danse nodded, but the night’s good news was driven from his head as she turned her back on him and removed her pants. His eyes trailed to her lips, her neck, where she loved to be kissed. The curves of her waist and hips, only half hidden by her loose shirt.

She began to talk about work and her plans for the settlement, but Danse was barely listening. He was supposed to be preparing for his own work tomorrow, too. He still had to arrange things for Duncan, sort out the change in the shift pattern, let Mordecai know about...

Danse walked over to Quinn as she continued to talk about her duties, and stood behind her. “Work can wait,” he said, and started slowly kissing her neck. Quinn stopped talking at once, tilting her head to the side as he nipped gently at her skin, his hands sliding up the front of her shirt. She leaned back against him and ran her hand along his thigh, but not venturing any further.

“Tease,” Danse murmured, lifting her shirt up and pulling it carefully over her head. Quinn shivered, and then whipped around, pushing him back. He cried out in surprise, his legs hitting the edge of the bed so that he toppled backwards onto it. Before he could ready himself, Quinn was upon him, straddling him and unbuttoning his shirt, pulling impatiently at his belt buckle until he moved her hands aside and tried to do it himself. This proved difficult, as she began massaging his crotch. She laughed when he gave up, leaning his head back, and closing his eyes.

Quinn undid the damn belt, but then took her time undressing Danse, pushing him back down when he tried to sit up and help. The look in her eyes said _‘wait,’_ so he obeyed, trying to control his cravings.

She took him into her hands, moving up and down, her tongue trailing after her fingers. All Danse could do was hold onto her hair, wanting to give something in return, but not wanting her to stop. Eventually, though, she did stop, and Danse took the opportunity to drag her onto the bed, pulling off her underwear and slipping his hand between her legs.

Work could wait, Danse thought idly as Quinn’s breath grew heavy in his ear. For one night, it could all wait.

* * *

Danse stirred from his sleep. He blinked a few times, staring up into the darkness, and then reached out to Quinn. His hand fell into an empty space, the bed sheets still faintly warm. Danse frowned and propped himself up, squinting. No sign of her. He glanced down to the floor and saw her clothes and shoes were gone. Danse hesitated, wondering if he should just go back to sleep. She’d return. But something didn’t feel right, so he slipped out of bed, got dressed, and headed downstairs. As he suspected, she wasn’t there, and the front door wasn’t locked. There were a few places she might visit without telling him, but only one at this time of night. Biting his lip, Danse picked up his keys, locking the front door as he left, and striding off towards the graveyard.

Since the restructuring of Sanctuary, the pre-war buildings been demolished, including Quinn’s old house. The city’s graveyard stood on the foundations of her destroyed home. Quinn never really said anything about it and avoided the area, except when she went to visit Nate.

The air felt heavy in the graveyard, betraying Danse’s every move. He walked slowly and carefully, weaving in and out of the graves of all those who fell in the battle against Sanctuary. It was pitch black, and the ground was pitted and uneven—one bad step and he could break his ankle. No one would likely find him until morning. With this sombering thought in his mind, he took extra care, heading to the back of the graveyard, where Nate lay.

_And Marguerie._

Danse hesitated and shivered. He hadn’t thought about _her_ in over a decade. Old feelings erupted up in his chest, the shame of his failure gripping at his heart. He’d searched for Sarah for months. _Years._ Went as far as the Glowing Sea and the edges of the Commonwealth, before Quinn finally put her foot down.

_“Arlen Glass is no combatant,”_ she’d said, _“and Sarah is a child. If they’ve gone that far, they’re already dead.”_

As much as he hated it, Danse agreed with Quinn. And so he’d stopped.

_Failure._

He’d promised Marguerie and let her down. Danse visited her grave when he gave up and tried to explain, but it sounded like nothing but weak excuses to his ears. Quinn insisted if Rachel was alive, she’d understand he tried his best. Danse thought if Marguerie was alive, she’d tried to kill him. He kept her holotags and journal, though. Just in case.

Danse shook his head and moved on. Now was not the time to be lamenting over the past. He had to find Quinn. He stumbled and groped his way through the darkness, until he heard the sound of lapping water. He was close. “Quinn?”

“Danse?” she sounded surprised, and he followed her voice until her hand was in his.

“Everything okay?” he asked, squeezing her fingers. Now he was close to her, he could just make out her face.

“Yeah, I just…” She bit her lip and looked down at Nate’s grave. “I had a nightmare about Nate and Shaun, and I just...Shaun never had children. Nate never became a grandfather. And I…” Her voice cracked. “I wanted to visit him. It’s been a while.”

Danse glanced at the grave and back to her. “Do you need to be alone?”

“No.” She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned into him, still looking at the grave. “Stay. Please.”

He stayed.

They stood in silence for some time, Quinn sniffing a little in the dark. Then she squeezed his hand and they carefully picked their way back to the graveyard entrance together. She turned and hugged him, resting her head against his chest. He held her tight, the shaking of her shoulders telling him he should wait. When she pulled away, the street lamps showed the wet streaks on her cheeks. Danse wiped them away with his thumb and kissed her forehead. “Let’s go home. I’ll make you a drink and we—”

In the distance, an alarm sounded.

Quinn and Danse looked at each other. Then, without another word, both of them sprinted to the guard tower. Danse forged ahead, leaving her behind, and raced up the stairs to where MacCready was sat, rifle in hand, Mordecai next to him and peering at a nearby terminal.

“Brotherhood,” Mordecai said before Danse could speak. “They signalled ahead to let us know they were in the area. They’re asking for permission to approach.”

“Permission?” Danse asked, feeling sick to his stomach. Had they been discovered after all these years? The Brotherhood could wipe them off the map without lifting a finger, without batting an eyelid. “It’s odd they’d give away their location to ask us for permission.”

“Permission?” Quinn said as she burst into the room. “Who’s asking for permission?”

“Brotherhood,” said MacCready darkly, returning to peering through his rifle.

Quinn’s face drained of colour. _“Brotherhood?”_

“They haven’t attacked,” Danse said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “They’re asking to approach. They wouldn’t do that if they wanted to kill us.”

“Well maybe their tactics have _changed,_ Danse!” Quinn snapped, her voice edging towards hysterical. “It’s been nearly two decades since you were with them!”

Danse agreed with her, but he needed to keep his cool. He turned to Mordecai. “How many?”

“Just the one vertibird that we can see,” Mordecai replied.

“Give them permission to land. Let’s see why the Brotherhood wants to visit our city.” Danse picked up a rifle from the gun cupboard, a visored helmet, and made for the door leading to the city entrance. A few seconds later, Quinn was at his side, a pistol and holster in her hands.

Danse glanced at her as he wedged the helmet on, the darkened visor making it difficult to see in the low light.

“I’m their sentinel, remember?” she said, answering his unspoken worries. Quinn put on the holster and slipped the gun into it. “Who better to talk them down than me?”

She was right of course, but that didn’t soothe Danse’s nerves. Once she’d set her mind to something, though, there was no point dissuading her. He lifted the visor up, leaned forward, and kissed her. “Be careful.”

Quinn smiled. “If they try to force their way into our city, we’re going to throw them out on their fucking asses.”

* * *

The distant buzz of the vertibird grew louder with every passing second. Quinn stood at the gates of Sanctuary, Danse next to her, her nerves cutting into him like broken glass. She remembered the day the Prydwen left the Commonwealth, and how she’d stood hand in hand with Danse on a bridge into the Boston ruins, watching it go. He’d said very little at the time, and even less afterwards, but Quinn knew what he’d been thinking. His first real home was flying away without him. He had been abandoned. The recovery after that blow had taken some time, even though Danse expected it.

Now the Brotherhood were back, and once again the old pains were returning to Danse’s handsome, weathered face. Quinn stared out into the darkness, hating the Brotherhood. Hating that they could drag up the past with just their mere _presence._ Danse had worked so hard over the years to get to where he was now, and they could undo it all in just a second. He didn’t deserve this shit.

Finally, the vertibird came into view, dazzling lights scanning the horizon, before settling in a neat spot some way from Sanctuary. Quinn felt herself tense. A figure in power armour got out, landed with a heavy _‘thud,’_ and began to walk over, their hands raised in the air. Quinn and Danse glanced at each other. They’d never seen a Brotherhood soldier with their arms held up in surrender before.

As the soldier approached, Quinn recognised the paint work as a paladin’s, which made their behaviour even more peculiar. They slowly put their hands to their head, making sure Quinn and Danse knew exactly what they were doing, and carefully took their helmet off. Underneath was a dark skinned man with a scarred face and a big, bushy beard.

“Sir,” the man said, nodding to Danse. He looked at Quinn with a serious expression. “Ma’am.”

Quinn’s mouth dropped open. _“Carson?”_

Carson broke into a wide smile and began laughing. “Thank fuck you’re quick on the uptake. I couldn’t keep a straight face for much long—” He broke off as Quinn shoved her pistol into her holster and ran to him, jumping into a hug. He flinched, and then very gently hugged her back, compensating for his armour. “Hi,” he mumbled into her ear.

They broke apart and beamed at each other.

“You look like shit,” she said, tugging at his beard. “Forget how to shave or something?”

Carson rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Tom says the same. I think it makes me look manly. Besides—” he carefully flicked at her hair, “—at least I’m not going grey.”

“Tom?” Quinn said, ignoring his jibe. “You’re still with Kapraski?”

“You sound surprised, ma’am!” came a voice from the vertibird. A tall, stocky man stuck his bald head out from the cockpit and waved enthusiastically.

Quinn waved back, feeling like she was in some sort of dream, but then frowned at Carson. “You brought Kapraski with you? But what about Danse?”

Carson shrugged. “Tom’s known about Paladin Danse the whole time. I told him what happened a few days after you left the Brotherhood.”

“You _told_ him?” Quinn hissed, suddenly angry. “What if it had gone wrong? What if you and Kapraski fell out? What if—?”

“You told Elder Maxson about Rachel,” Carson said coolly. “You told him I knew about Paladin Danse. That could have gotten me and Kapraski killed, or worse. I decided if you could trust Elder Maxson, I wasn’t going to lie to Tom about Rachel. He’s my partner, and I love him. I won’t lie to him. Not even for you, Quinn.”

Quinn stared up at her old friend. Time had given him a backbone. He would never have been so decisive when they’d been on the Prydwen together. She smiled. “It seems being an officer suits you.”

Carson grinned back at her, and the tension passed. “Yeah, I think so too. Damn near shit myself when Maxson brought me into his confidence, but I reckon he only did that so he could keep an eye on me and make sure I wasn’t going to spill his dirty secret on Paladin Danse. Except we both realised I was actually competent when left to my own devices, instead of under someone else’s command. He made me a paladin shortly before he left the Citadel.”

“He _left_ the Citadel?” Danse said, his tone full of shock.

Carson glanced over at Danse and nodded. “Yes, sir. Disappeared for a good while, too. Asked me to help keep things in order during his absence, because he said he would return. He just wanted to make sure power struggles were kept to a minimum, and no radical redirecting of the Brotherhood’s agenda.” Carson pulled a face. “Good thing he thinks ahead. Second he left, all sorts of opportunists came crawling out of the woodworks.” He paused, tilting his head. “Not Kells, though, oddly enough. He didn’t care who was in power, just so long as he could keep flying the Prydwen.”

Carson looked back at Danse—who was still wearing his helmet—and said, “There’s no one else in the area, sir, I promise. You’re safe. We made a solo trip.”

“You would need to refuel,” Danse said, taking off his helmet anyway and scowling suspiciously at Carson.

Carson shook his head. “Doctor Li’s been doing wonders with alternative fuelling methods for the vertibirds and the Prydwen, with the help of the integrated scientists you made Maxson rescue from the Institute. Some nuclear shit I don’t understand, no matter how many times Li explains it to me.”

Quinn blinked, trying to take it all in. Carson was a paladin. Li was still with the Brotherhood, and more importantly, so were the Institute scientists. Kapraski was flying again. Maxson _left the Prydwen._ Did he really take her advice on board all those years ago?

“I think we need a proper catch-up,” Quinn said, motioning for her guards to stand down. “Come on. We’ll go to my office.”

They waited for Kapraski to wriggle his way out of the vertibird and stump over to them. Quinn saw he had a mechanised prosthetic leg, and once again marvel swept over her as he walked freely to them. His pace was a little unsteady, the weight of his new leg obviously making things unbalanced, but he reached them just fine and grinned.

“Would you mind if some of your men just keep an eye on my ‘bird, please, ma’am?” He looked over his shoulder at the vertibird the same way a father would look at his newborn child. “Don’t want anything happening to her. She’s valuable equipment and our only way home.”

“Sure. Danse, would you…?”

Danse nodded and signalled up for two of the guards to come down to the gates. Carson rolled his eyes. “Everyone used to ask if we were ever gonna adopt one of the squires that lost their parents, but the way I see it, we already have a child in the family.” He looked from the vertibird to Kapraski, and the two of them chuckled.

Quinn smiled, remembering how nervous Carson used to be around Kapraski.

Once the vertibird was secured, the four of them made their way to the mayoral office, Danse keeping unusually close to Quinn and glaring at the two soldiers whenever he thought she couldn’t see him. As they went inside the building, she put her hand on his arm and gave it a small squeeze.

“Relax,” she whispered.

“I’ll relax when they’re gone,” Danse muttered back. If Carson and Kapraski heard him, they didn’t comment, following Quinn and Danse in silence upstairs. Carson got out of his power armour, and they all settled into chairs in her office, while Quinn handed out drinks.

“So what happened with everyone?” she asked as she sat down opposite Carson. “How is Casey?”

“Head of the scribes. Proctor Shingler now,” Carson said, leaning back in his chair. He raised his eyebrow at Quinn’s shocked expression. “What, you never suspected she was a high flyer?”

“Well no, I knew she was smart but…” Quinn shrugged. “The last time I saw her she was barely alive. Even when she woke up I wasn’t sure if she’d ever be the same again.”

“She’s kicking ass at her job. Quinlan was right to pick her as his protégée.”

“Is Quinlan still helping her adjust?”

“No. He died about—” Carson paused, his brow furrowing. “—seven years ago. Suspected heart attack.”

“Oh.” Quinn blinked. She hadn’t particularly liked or disliked Quinlan, but the news wasn’t welcomed all the same. “I’m sorry to hear it. What about the other proctors? Are they okay?”

“Let’s see…” Carson began counting them off on his fingers, one by one. “Ingram’s the same, scary as ever. Working closely with Doctor Li, even after Liberty Prime went bust and no one could fix it again. Kells is still running day to day stuff on the ship, but he’s under Maxson’s thumb now rather than the other way around, and Teagan…” Carson trailed off, biting his lip. “Teagan started drinking when we got back to the Citadel. Died a few years later. He was one of Cade’s last patients.”

The news of Teagan stung a bit more than Quinlan’s, but the mention of Cade took priority. Quinn had been fond of the Knight-Captain. “Cade’s last…?”

“Oh, he’s not hurt!” Carson said quickly, flapping his hands, his eyes wide. “I think after Teagan went, Cade just had enough. Stepped down from his position and began training Field-Scribe Haylen to take his place. She pretty much runs the sick bay now, but Cade advises her from time to time, when she needs him.”

Danse sat up straighter in his seat at the mention of Haylen. “How is she doing? Is she well?”

Carson smiled and nodded. “Yeah, she’s doing fine. You couldn’t ask for a kinder doctor. Knight-Captain Cade seems fond of her—very protective, like she’s his daughter or something. He was with her when she got married ten years ago.”

“Married to who?”

“Knight-Sergeant Karl Hewer. We all still call her Haylen, though.”

The name felt familiar to Quinn, though she couldn’t place why. She looked at Danse, who seemed surprised at this revelation. She saw his lips silently form the word _‘Rhys?’_ before he gave a little shrug and sat back in his chair again.

“But things have been really moving forward in terms of technology,” Carson said, swigging from his bottle and grinning lazily. “We’re managing to keep all the dangerous tech under wraps, and the tech that can help improve people’s lives—including our own—is being constantly developed. The Institute scientists have been a great help.”

“How on earth did you manage to keep them?” Quinn asked, still not able to wrap her head around this. “And Li, too? She made it clear the Brotherhood pissed her off.”

Carson simply said, “Maxson.” There was a moment of silence, and Carson went on. “He put his foot down and made sure they stayed. Didn’t make them or anything, but basically persuaded them it was safer working with the Brotherhood than roaming alone in the wasteland. Most of them had never survived in the open before, so they were just grateful for a place to live. Doctor Li and Doctor Virgil took them into their care, closely monitored, and began working on approved projects.”

“Bet the others didn’t like that.”

“Oh god no. They had to have trusted guards assigned to them for their own protection in the end. But over time, things changed. Maxson is a force to be reckoned with, and when the scientists began working wonders for the Citadel and the Capital Wasteland, the mood changed pretty quickly.”

“But you said Maxson disappeared,” Danse interjected, looking interested again. “That he left. What happened to the scientists then?”

“They became my responsibility,” Carson replied. “I made sure they stayed safe, just like I was asked. And to be honest, people were more concerned with Maxson’s absence and the power vacuum left behind than a small group of eggheads. He didn’t tell anyone beforehand. Just sent out some scheduled messages saying he was going to do some private work somewhere, and gave a list of people to run the show while he was gone. I was on that list, along with a few others. But people fought amongst themselves, of course.” Carson grinned. “Lucky for you, really. Everyone was so focused on finding a leader, they disregarded the reports of a potential synth settlement in the Commonwealth.”

Quinn went cold. The Brotherhood knew about Sanctuary?

“Are we at risk of an attack?” Danse said sharply.

Carson shook his head. “If you were, an attack would have happened years ago. But when Maxson came back, he was...different.”

“Different?” Danse leaned forward and frowned.

“I can’t explain it, sir. Just...different. He looked lighter. Like some weight had been pulled off his shoulders. And the first thing he did was drag us all away from hunting down synths and treating civilised ghouls like shit. So, naturally, a mini civil war broke out amongst the ranks. All the hardcore Brotherhood traditionalists claiming Maxson was leading us down a dark path.”

“Like when Owyn Lyons decided to help the common wastelanders?” Danse asked, raising his eyebrows.

Carson nodded. “Yeah, like that. Except Maxson has the power of persuasion that Owyn didn’t. Used the Maxson name and influence to his benefit, and pointed out the codex doesn’t say we have to distance ourselves from ghouls and synths. He said he destroyed the Institute, and that the synths were free of being controlled. They could live their lives like normal humans. Without orders, they were no longer technology being used for experiments and weaponry, just people trying to get by.”

“Did that work?”

“It shut a few of the traditionalists up, but more importantly, the neutral majority were convinced, and they kept the more radical people in line. Maxson was careful after that. He went over plans with me, and across the years we’ve been slowly changing things to match Owyn Lyons’ way of thinking—helping out wastelanders and building good relationships with them, y’know? People grumbled, but Elder Maxson convinced them mutual aid were worth the hassle. We protect them, they supply us with food and other things we can’t get ourselves.”

“It didn’t work when Elder Lyons tried,” Danse said, frowning. “Why would now be any different?”

“The change was so gradual, no one really noticed at first,” Carson replied with a shrug. “And when they did, most didn’t care because they were used to it. The ones who protested, Elder Maxson accused of being no better than raiders, stealing from the helpless. He said the Brotherhood were above that: an organisation with a noble cause. But if they wanted to be common raiders, they were welcome to leave.”

Quinn snorted. Carson grinned at her. “Yeah, it’s a load of shit, but sometimes using the right rhetoric works wonders. Our chapter didn’t splinter like Owyn’s, and even the naysayers eventually came around. The only real concern we have left now are the elders in the west.”

“They’ve _always_ been a concern,” Danse said, looking annoyed. “Interfering where they weren’t wanted or needed, causing more turmoil than any other threat in the wasteland.”

Carson nodded. “They’re still an issue, but for the moment aren’t actively working against us. They’re unwilling to openly stand against the last descendent of Maxson, so Elder Maxson is pressing hard on that point to keep things in his favour.”

The news was troubling, but in all honesty, it wasn’t Quinn’s problem. Maxson wasn’t a young man anymore, and the strife within the Brotherhood was his responsibility. The very concept felt liberating.

“And speaking of Maxson,” Carson said, standing up and walking over to his power armour. “He wanted me to give you this, sir.” Carson removed a package and an envelope from the armour, strode towards Danse, and held the package out to him. Danse took it warily, never taking his eyes off Carson. He opened it with great care, and then drew in a sharp breath.

Quinn straightened up and saw a red book and a set of tarnished holotags in Danse’s lap. He picked up the tags, grief rippling through his expression as he held them up to the light. Then his fingers closed around them, and he clutched them tight to his chest, bowing his head. An old memory surfaced in Quinn’s mind like a shipwreck dragged from the depths of a murky lake.

_“He kept it?”_

_Elder Maxson ran his fingers over the deep red book, embossed with peeling silver letters. He picked it up and tucked it carefully under his arm, his expression pained for a second, before a forced blankness took over. Then he took hold of the holotags, glaring at Quinn as she begged to keep them._

_“Tags go to the next of kin. These should never have been kept.”_

Quinn snapped back to the present as Danse opened the book, the silver embossed letters catching in the low light just long enough for Quinn to read _‘The Tales of King Arthur.’_

Danse scanned the page, eyebrows knotted together in concentration as his free hand slowly slid down the open page. Then the his face lit up with something Quinn couldn’t place, and he gave a low laugh before looking up at Carson. For the first time that night, Danse smiled at the Brotherhood soldiers. He closed the book and said, “Tell Elder Maxson thank you, and…” he hesitated, that strange look crossing his features again. “Tell him I have reconsidered. He will know what I mean.”

Carson appeared as confused as Quinn felt, but he nodded and agreed to pass on the message. Then he turned to Quinn. “The Elder has something for you as well.” He held out the envelope to her.

She took it, her confusion mounting, and opened the envelope. Inside were detailed blueprints, far beyond her understanding. She wouldn’t have been able to deduce them at all, if it wasn’t for the fact _‘WATER PURIFIER’_ was written across the top in big, bold letters. Quinn blinked, holding them aloft, and looked back to Carson. “I don’t understand. We have plenty of industrial purifiers.”

Carson rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I thought you might say that. This is the mother of all purifiers, decades worth of research from Doctor Li, built upon the back of the original purifier in D.C. This baby is efficient, powerful, and most of all, has low fuel consumption for its size. Elder Maxson thought it might help your thriving community stay self sufficient, and benefit the rest of the Commonwealth in the process.”

Quinn stared at Carson, and then at the blueprints. Her chest felt tight, but it wasn’t with fear or anxiety. She remembered Maxson as he was, an angry, sheltered young man with too much grief and burden on his back, oblivious to his own ignorance. She glanced up at Carson and said, “How long has Elder Maxson known about Sanctuary and the people who live here?”

Carson smiled. “Years.”

Quinn and Danse looked at each other, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. Quinn put the blueprints back in their envelope.

Sanctuary was _safe._

* * *

Paladin Carson and Knight-Lancer Kapraski left not long afterwards. Quinn argued with them, trying to get them to stay longer, but they both insisted they needed to return back to base. Eventually, she relented, hugging them both and telling them to stay in contact. That they were welcome any time.

Danse agreed. He even shook their hands.

Danse stood with Quinn and watched the vertibird leave, their fingers entwined, like the day the Prydwen departed the Commonwealth. Back then, it felt as if a knife had been run through his chest. Now, the wound had finally healed.

When the light of the vertibird disappeared into the darkness, they walked back through the streets of Sanctuary, ignoring the curious faces silhouetted in the windows. The lights went out one by one, and soon the city was asleep again.

Danse turned over Cutler’s holotags in his hands. The book was a treasure, but the tags? After twenty years, he had been reunited with Cutler. The gratitude Danse felt was inexplicable. He had Cutler back.

_He had Cutler back._

Quinn stayed quiet the whole way home. She understood. He needed this moment for himself.

When they reached their bedroom, however, she looked at him and said, “I don’t get what you said to Carson. About reconsidering. What does that mean?”

Danse grinned, amused. “Maxson added a personal note inside the cover. Here.” He passed the precious book to Quinn. She hesitated, and then accepted it, opening the book and reading the note aloud.

_“Twenty years have passed since we last spoke. Two decades to think over mistakes and regrets, and what could have been. Apologies that were never uttered. Wrongs that were never righted._

_In that time, I hope your stance over Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere has been reconsidered._

_May the rest of your days be peaceful._

_Arthur.”_

Quinn looked up at Danse and frowned. “I don’t get it. Is he apologising to you?”

“As best he can,” Danse said. When Quinn still looked puzzled, he laughed, taking the book from her and shutting it. “An old joke between distant friends. Don’t worry about it.”

Quinn shrugged and began getting ready for bed for the second time that night, while Danse strode over to the shelf opposite him, where Marguerie’s journal lay. He looked at the old, battered book for a moment, her holotags and Zippo lighter neatly placed atop the worn leather. With the greatest care, Danse set _‘The Tales of King Arthur’_ down next to the journal, and put Cutler’s tags down onto the red cover.

Some things didn’t work out. And some things did. Danse hoped wherever Sarah was now, she was happy.

Danse changed for bed and settled down with Quinn, his mind buzzing with the night’s events. He heard her say something about how Hancock was arriving first thing in the morning with his newest bodyguard, but Danse couldn’t focus on the words. He mumbled a response, still wrapped up in Maxson’s gesture, and put his arm around Quinn as she snuggled up to him.

Danse gazed at the ceiling, only faintly aware of the orange shafts of light creeping through their room. His thoughts were a tired, blissful haze. The absence of guilt, it seemed, was a hell of a sedative.

A small, snuffling snort drew his attention back to Quinn. He glanced down to see she had fallen asleep, her breath fluttering softly against his chest. Danse smiled to himself.

_“May the rest of your days be peaceful.”_

Somehow, he suspected they would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say...is that.
> 
> As I’ve said often, I only ever intended for this story to be ten chapters long. Then it took on a life of its own, and suddenly here we are, a year and eight months later, finally at the end. Some might say I took too long, but I honestly don’t care. I set out to rewrite the narrative of Fallout 4, and I’m damned please with the result, and surprised I managed to actually stick to it.
> 
> Thank you to all my readers, especially those who left comments. Without you, I probably would have stopped early on. It’s hard to stay invested and motivated without any feedback.
> 
> Thank you to one particular reviewer who helped me fine tune my research on PTSD. You were extremely helpful.
> 
> Thank you to all the people who helped me with other research, such as Spanish translations, American police stories and habits, and general betaing.
> 
> But the biggest thank you goes to my consistent beta, waiting4morning. This story would not have taken the directions it did or be of any good quality without her.
> 
> And let’s say a congratulations to one of my reviewers, ‘Dodo,’ who recently had a cute lil’ baby girl called Yara! ;)
> 
> And finally, if you’re sad about the end of BNC, then fear not. I have other fanfics in the works set in the BNC universe. They won’t be centred around Quinn and Danse, as their story is now over. But Quinn and Danse will crop up and be alluded to. Just not as main characters.
> 
> One fic is going to be based around Nuka World and Gage. The other will be based around Hancock himself. I will be writing these fics slightly differently to BNC, in that I’m going to write out the entire fic first and then update on a weekly basis. This will prevent inconsistent updates and save me a great deal of stress. I will be posting the first chapter of my next fic so that you can ‘follow’ it for updates, and then I will begin updating it when I finish writing it.
> 
> I deliberately left a few loose ends in BNC to allow me to explore certain characters without revealing what happened to them.
> 
> So without further ado, I present...
> 
> "Making One’s Bones"
> 
> Read on...


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